


i thought this wouldn't hurt a lot (i guess not)

by FlYiNgPiGlEtS



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Addiction, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Archivist Martin Blackwood, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, F/F, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Found Family, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Isolation, M/M, Manipulation, Multi, Post-The Unknowing (The Magnus Archives), Safehouses, Season/Series 05 Spoilers, Slow Burn, Specific Content Warnings at the Start of Each Chapter, Suicidal Ideation, Suicidal Thoughts, The Entities - Freeform, Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives) Lives
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:41:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 103,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25496263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlYiNgPiGlEtS/pseuds/FlYiNgPiGlEtS
Summary: After the Unknowing, Jon survives at the cost of his connection to the Entities. Meanwhile, Martin is forced into the role of the Archivist, manipulated on both sides by Elias and Peter under the guise of forming a united front against the Extinction. Separated but not willing to let go, Jon and Martin fight new battles to save each other—and the world as they know it.Or: an Archivist!Martin Series 4 AU.
Relationships: Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Georgie Barker & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sasha James & Tim Stoker
Comments: 161
Kudos: 154





	1. while everyone's lost, the battle is won

**Author's Note:**

> i know Archivist!Martin is a Cursed concept but i also had to explore it in excessive detail, hence this fic. specific content warnings for this chapter below, please also heed the tags and let me know if you have any concerns/questions regarding any of the cws, i'll be happy to answer them or provide summaries of particular chapters if you want/need to skip any!!!
> 
> SPECIFIC CHAPTER CONTENT WARNINGS: suicidal thoughts/ideation, implied/referenced character death (related to The Unknowing), death and mortality, The End (Entity), bargaining, Elias's mind trick/forced Beholding, implied/referenced child abuse, police brutality, manipulation, isolation, stabbing, blood, swearing, unreality, medical talk and personnel, The Lonely (Entity), grief/loss. Most of this is canon-typical and draws from TMA118 (Masquerade) and 119 (Stranger and Stranger).
> 
> Fic title from "Kids" by MGMT and chapter title from "All These Things That I've Done" by The Killers.

It’s not easy to die when someone asks you not to.

Oh, Jon’s always been a stubborn bastard, there’s no debate to be had with that statement, but he digs his heels with the most ferocity for those he cares about. So when he finds himself once again in the cold dissection room, and this time there is something like determination on Georgie’s face, he will not let himself get pulled from this dream into another, not yet.

He’ll take determination over pity any day.

“Listen to me, Jon, we haven’t got much time,” Georgie says, quick and clear, and it almost pushes him sideways out of this fractured reality and into—well, he doesn’t know what’s on the other side and, for the first time, he doesn’t want to find out. “I can get you out of here, but you have to give the rest of it up. The entities, the Archives—if you promise yourself to mortality, I can take you back. I can take you home.”

“Home,” Jon murmurs, the word so unfamiliar he thinks that he would no longer know how to spell it, that he is pronouncing it wrong.

Georgie smiles, soft. “Yes, Jon. Home.”

“I—I thought I was—I don’t know h-how to—”

“All you have to do is want it,” Georgie tells him, “Do you want to live, Jon?”

Isn’t that a loaded question? He used to be so terrified by his own mortality that the answer would be easy, simple. He remembers catching Tim’s eyes in the van, on the way to Great Yarmouth, and almost cutting himself on the sharp gleam of his returning glare. It looked like bloodlust, but all Jon could think was _suicidal_. And it terrified him. 

But his fear has twisted among these endless dreams. He is terrified in a way he has never been before, because he knows he is at a crossroads, he knows he is staring down an abyss and trying to resist the urge to jump. His humanity hangs in the balance, more precious than his life, and that complicates the decision considerably.

“I—I don’t know.”

“Oh, Jon, I— _I_ want you to live. I miss you.” There are tears in Georgie’s eyes now, and he can’t remember the last time he saw her cry, only that he was the cause then, too, and it’s unbearable. “We all miss you. Martin—”

His heart latches on to this name. His unbeating heart, kicked into action by a name, because he remembers the beginning of that journey to Yarmouth, too. He remembers catching sight of Martin in the rear-view mirror, getting smaller and smaller as they pulled away, and thinking: _please be here when we get back._

_Please be here when we get back_

“Martin,” Jon echoes. His voice is rusty from disuse.

“Jon, please. Chose to _live_. I know you have it in you. And it’s selfish, I know it is, but I’m not ready.” She smiles through her tears. “None of us are ready to let you go just yet.”

“I’m becoming a monster.”

“You don’t have to. There’s a choice, Jon, there’s _always a choice_.” She holds out her hand to him. “Let me help you. Please.”

“Georgie, the Unknowing, the other rituals—I can’t just—”

“We’ll stop them. I can explain everything, but it won’t be long before Elias—”

Jon feels fear echo in his chest again. “Elias, he—it didn’t work? He’s not—?”

“Later, I promise.”

“I trust you.” To even his own ears, it sounds like an accusation. 

“I know. And I won’t let you down.”

Jon takes Georgie’s hand.

Georgie pulls Jon close. It reminds him of dancing, of her drawing him near while the old record player he kept in his university room droned through his grandmother’s scratched vinyl collection. He’d complained, and she’d laughed and spun him around, and he’d felt loved. Loved in a soft new way.

“The moment you die,” Georgie whispers in the dreamscape, her breath tickling the soft curl of his ear, “Will feel exactly like this.”

* * *

Melanie’s knife is so sharp that Martin doesn’t feel it enter his shoulder. The sensation is smooth and cold, and he only realises he’s injured when his legs start to shake. He never liked the sight of blood. It makes him queasy, in a mild, distant sort of way, not enough to prevent him offering first aid, especially as the only member of the Archives with any actual training, but he did have to stop watching _Game of Thrones_ after less than four—

Oh. The knife. The blood. _His_ blood. He’s lucky enough to drop onto a chair, rather than the floor scattered with the ashes of his destruction, and he’s glad he’s already crying about his mother, because it would be embarrassing to be so upset at the idea of losing his favourite shirt to an unexpected bloodstain.

God, he can’t _think_.

Elias’s mind trick is horribly akin to having his brain placed inside a tumble dryer. Awful as the analogy is, he’d been doing laundry the night before as a coping mechanism, and he remembers the noisy, stuffy heat of the room with the dryers. The way it seemed to coat his mind. He’s been thrown around, wrung out, all without moving, and he wants to sink into the feverish heat of _why_ , after so many years of trying not to wonder.

There is something more familiar about his mother’s hatred—new as the full force of it is—than the ice of Melanie’s knife in his shoulder. He flicks between both, hot then cold, familiar then foreign, and feels like he’s going to faint.

“You _bastard_ ,” Melanie is screaming, as two police officers—when did they arrive? Why are they arresting Melanie? Was that part of their plan?—try to drag her out of the room. There’s a collection of papers and tapes on the floor, mingling with the blood and ashes, but no sign of the knife, which makes Martin realise, idly, that it must still be in his shoulder.

Elias is standing in front of Martin. He has his hands lifted, splayed, like he’s trying to talk Melanie down. It’s almost laughable. “Melanie, please—”

“Let him _go_!” Melanie continues, tearing at the hands holding her. “Bring him back!”

“Martin is right here,” Elias replies smoothly.

“You _did_ something to him! You made him—” One of the police officers pulls Melanie towards them, trying to subdue her further. She twists and, with a snarl, bites into their arm. There’s a yelp of surprise, a welt of blood against a white shirt in an almost comical, Halloween-like shape, and then Melanie launches herself forward, free of their hold. “Get out of my way, Elias, or I swear to—Martin, look at me. He’s done something to you. He’s— _no_! Let me go! _Let me go_!”

“Please take her away, officers,” Elias says, “I would like to get my employee the medical attention he so clearly needs, and I’m sure a _violent_ commotion is not going to help matters.”

“ _Martin_!” Melanie shrieks, even as she’s pulled bodily from the room. There’s a desperate edge to her voice, the sharpness of tears that come from helplessness, from fury. “Martin, don’t listen to him. Martin—”

There’s a choked, pained sound. Martin hears retreating footsteps, but no more shouts from Melanie, and it makes him feel awfully alone.

“That looks unpleasant,” Elias comments, looking at Martin’s shoulder with an unmoved expression, “I’ll have Rosie call an ambulance. If you’ll excuse me for a moment, Martin.”

Martin just stares at him. He can’t make his mouth work. He’s still crying, but the tears leak down his face so quickly he feels as though they no longer belong to him. Elias makes a small, satisfied noise and then extracts himself from the room.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, numb to the knife in his shoulder while old memories re-align themselves in his mind. It suddenly makes sense, now, why his mother never kept photos around the house. The way she would look at him sometimes. He knows he should put pressure on the wound, perhaps, or stabilise the knife so it doesn’t do any more damage, but movement is impossible. He’s an abandoned shell, slowly filling with saltwater, as he begins to understand the truth of his relationship with his mother.

The squeal of static doesn’t startle him. When Peter Lukas appears, Martin simply raises his head to look at him, waiting for whatever he has to say.

“Martin,” Peter says, his voice soft but patronising, “You really ought to be more careful. Were you never taught not to play with knives?”

Martin tries to laugh, but it sounds closer to a sob. No, his mother didn’t teach him not to play with knives. All his mother taught him was the fine art of self-hatred.

“Ah. I see.” Peter tips his head, studying Martin with a neutral sort of interest. “Well, I won’t keep you. Apologies for the timing, but I thought I’d drop by sooner rather than later to let you know I’ll be seeing you _very_ soon.”

Martin blinks, finds his voice. “Uh, Mr Lukas—”

“Peter, please.”

“Peter,” Martin murmurs, “I don’t—I don’t understand.”

“You just focus on your recovery for now, Martin. I’ll drop by when you’re feeling better, and we can discuss our plans properly.”

“ _Our_ plans?”

“Yes. All in due time, Martin. But I think we’ll do great things together.”

“Great things,” Martin echoes. The ice in his shoulder has turned to a comforting numbness, and even the pain of Elias’s forced knowledge seems to be growing distant, a faraway ache.

“Exactly. Well, I’ll be seeing you.” Peter seems to blink out of existence with the same burst of static, and the smallest swirl of fog.

The next thing Martin knows, he’s surrounded by paramedics. They’re asking Martin questions, and Elias is answering each with a terrifying precision. Martin can only assume he is prying this information from the deepest recesses of his mind, which sometimes even _he_ can’t reach. What _is_ his blood type? Oh, B-negative, according to Elias. And he’s allergic to diazepam, apparently. That’s new.

Just when the paramedics start talking about moving him to the ambulance outside, Rosie comes into the room, pale and shaking. She says something to Elias, and he affects an air of seriousness as he listens.

“Ah. I had best speak to the Norfolk Constabulary myself, I think,” Elias says, when Rosie is finished. He looks at Martin, but he addresses the paramedics: “If you’ll excuse me. There’s been an emergency involving some other members of my team. What a day we’re having.”

Elias leaves. Rosie lingers.

“Can I—?” Rosie looks at the nearest paramedic, gesturing vaguely at Martin with a trembling hand. “Before you take him to the hospital, I think there’s something he should know.”

“Go ahead.”

Rosie kneels next to Martin. She places her hand on the arm of the chair, then seems to reassess, frowning at her own appendage until she reaches properly for him. The touch of her hand against his upper arm is like a burn, but Martin doesn’t pull away as she looks up at him with deep, awful pity. “Martin, there’s—Jon’s team, the ones who went to Yarmouth for that follow-up.”

Martin feels himself nod, ever so slightly. A small dip of his chin. Poor Rosie. She had to book the B&B, at Elias’s request, with only the vaguest of explanations about what any of them were actually doing there.

“There’s been an explosion. At the wax museum. The police seem to think that Jon and the others…” Rosie takes a deep breath. “They think they were all inside when it happened. Martin, I’m so sorry.”

“Oh,” Martin murmurs, and it’s such a small syllable to capture the way his world has suddenly been pushed entirely off its axis.


	2. i'm a liar, don't doubt my sincerity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon has questions. Months earlier, Martin doesn't like the answers he is forced to confront.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER SPECIFIC CONTENT WARNINGS: hospitalisation, medical setting, death and mortality, bargaining (in reference to death/grief), exhaustion, confusion, unreality, stabbing, pain medication (morphine), suicidal ideation, reference to "off screen" overdose (not a character), description of explosion, manipulation, forced Beholding, food mention, vomiting, grief/loss, implied/referenced character death (again, in specific context of The Unknowing), The End (Entity), The Eye (Entity), The Lonely (Entity). 
> 
> i'm always open to any questions or queries about cws!!! please stay safe and look after yourselves <3
> 
> Chapter title from "Creature Comfort" by Arcade Fire.

“Explain it to me again.”

Two days out of a coma, and Jon is already tired. But he has too many questions, and he won’t rest until someone gives him more than an evasive half-answer. He rubs his eyes and tries not to lean too heavily on the pillows propping him up in the hospital bed.

“You need to _sleep_ , Jon,” Georgie tells him again.

“I’ve been asleep for—what, six months?”

“Five and a half.”

“I rounded it up.”

“For dramatic effect. How unlike you.”

“I don’t need any more _sleep_ , Georgie. What I _need_ is answers.”

“Fine. Fine, I’ll… you were appearing in my dreams, so I knew you were in there somewhere. In your own head, I mean, and I guess—well, it wouldn’t the first time I’ve had to pull you out of _there_.” Georgie gives him a pointed look, and he thinks he manages to look sheepish, because it softens into a smile. “Basira’s been catching me up on this whole eldritch fear gods thing. She knows more about it than you, I think. And she’s pretty damn good at archiving.”

“ _Georgie_.”

“Sorry. Not the point. And besides, she hasn’t been in the Archives in a while.”

Jon has lost all his powers of compulsion. They seemed to have blinked out of existence, while the scars on his hands, his face, his legs, his neck have faded as if by years rather than months. All scars and powers from the Avatars disarmed, and he found this out the hard way when he tried to convince a nurse to discharge him two minutes out of a coma and got laughed at.

There is no weight, besides a hungry and human curiosity, behind his next question: “ _Why_ hasn’t Basira been in the Archives?”

“Look, Jon. A lot has changed since you’ve been… gone.”

“I assume there _are_ still eldritch fear gods?” Jon pressed. “Or else I would be dead.”

“Yeah, I—in a way, yes. It was Basira’s idea, actually. She said I’d been ‘touched by the End’ and that if anyone was going to drag you out, it was me. It took us _months_ , but we figured it out after we got hold of Nathaniel Thorp’s statement. Death has a thing for bargains, right? People try to bargain with death and prolong their lives, or when they lose someone, they go through the bargaining stage of grief, trying to get them back, trying to keep their memory alive. But death always gets what it wants in the End, because no matter the bargain, it’s temporary. It can’t last forever.”

“I follow,” Jon says, urging her to continue.

“Basira thought I could strike some sort of deal with the End, my—patron, or whatever. Still not a massive fan of that whole… thing,” Georgie continues, “The Archivist, in its purest form—oh, like the one in Alexandria, we found that statement, too—is eternal. Some knowledge can escape death. You know, that would make a really interesting essay about the oral tradition and defying—fine, we can talk about that later. What matters is, I struck a bargain for your life. I promised you _would_ actually die, one day, as long as you got a life first. You’re still marked by the End, in that you’re not immortal anymore, but the other entities will leave you alone now. You’re free.”

“You make it sound so simple,” Jon mutters.

“Jon, I made a bargain with death. What about that sounds _simple_?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I don’t think I do.”

“Georgie, please, I—tell me what happens next.”

“What happens next is that you _rest_. When you don’t look like a corpse, I will tell you whatever you want to know, I promise.”

“Where is Martin?” he asks. He’s been asking almost every hour he’s been awake, and a tight-lipped look of grief always strikes Georgie’s face before she smothers it into something calm and neutral. “Just—is he alive? At least tell me that.”

Georgie sighs, chewing her lip. “Yes, he’s alive.”

“You don’t sound… pleased.”

“Go back to sleep, Jon,” Georgie whispers, “Please.”

Jon feels like he is sinking into the bed, like it will swallow him whole if he tries to stay awake for much longer. He relents—but just for now, he promises himself. _Just for now_ , he thinks, and hopes this thought reaches Martin, wherever he is. “Tell me again. Please. One more time.”

Georgie reaches for his hand. The Desolation’s scar is no longer so angry. “Tim is alive. Daisy is alive. Melanie is alive. Basira is alive. Martin is…” Georgie’s breath shudders, like she is cold, but she presses on. “Martin is alive. And the world is not going to end, not today. Not because of you.”

* * *

Martin is alive, which should be reassuring. A knife to the shoulder shouldn’t be fatal, at any rate, at least not immediately. But he still thinks it, as he sits behind a curtain in A&E, like he’s testing the truth of the statement: _I’m alive_.

Maybe it’s the morphine. According to Elias, he isn’t allergic to that.

He’s so lost in this fatalistic loop of thought that he hardly blinks when Elias appears, pushing the curtain aside with a single finger like it’s an offensive obstacle and stepping primly into the small segment of the busy department.

“The doctors aren’t too concerned about you, Martin. They wouldn’t have left you on your own otherwise,” Elias says, “Granted, they _are_ dealing with a nasty accidental overdose two beds away.”

“Thanks,” Martin mumbles, “That’s reassuring.”

“Is there anyone I can call?” Elias asks.

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Martin—”

“I’m sure,” Martin snaps.

“Hmm. So soon,” Elias murmurs, almost to himself, “Peter will be pleased.”

“Why was Peter Lukas at the Institute today?”

“It’s been an upsetting time for the Institute, what with all the animosity and distrust between the staff, and now this: a stabbing on-site and a horrible accident involving four of my employees. You can imagine the sort of stress I’m under.” Elias says this all with a perfectly pleasant smile. “Naturally, I thought it would be wise to share the workload a little. Hence, Peter Lukas will be joining us at the Magnus Institute for the foreseeable future.”

“Right.” Martin doesn’t know what to say.

“You will be working closely with him,” Elias continues, “In your new role.”

This breaks through the fog of unreality that’s been drowning Martin since he arrived at the hospital. “My _what_?”

“I have been speaking with the emergency services on the ground in Great Yarmouth. Basira appears to have made it out of the Wax Museum unharmed, but there’s no sign of Daisy as of yet. Jon and Tim have been located, and airlifted to Addenbrooke’s Hospital in critical condition. Their doctors are… not hopeful.”

“Oh,” Martin murmurs. That same, inadequate exhale. He wants to say more. He wants to scream his grief into existence. But right now, all he feels is numb, like it can’t be real, like it isn’t happening to him.

“It was quite courageous of you, to step in front of Melanie’s knife today.”

Martin looks at the pulse monitor strapped to his finger. The fact that the reading is an odd number makes him vaguely uneasy, and he tries to concentrate hard enough to make it even. “I didn’t do it for you.”

“All the same, bravery should be rewarded. And you have done some very promising work during your time in the Archives, despite your rather middling start at the Institute.”

“I don’t—what are you talking about?”

The hazy, morphine-dulled pain is making his snappish. Along with the suspicion that this is all a dream, that Jon and Tim are fine, probably still arguing with each other but _fine_ , and there’s not a knife half-embedded in the muscle of his shoulder, and there will be no repercussions for treating his boss like the eldritch abomination he is. Within reason, of course. It’s still difficult to fight the ingrained urge towards overdone politeness.

“You’re getting a promotion,” Elias replies with a twisted grin, “Congratulations, _Head Archivist_.”

Something _shifts_ in Martin’s chest. It’s not a pleasant sensation. There’s a burst of pain, as if his heart has thrown itself against his ribs, and then it settles into a deeper discomfort, like an itch, like there is something inside of him clawing to get out, rapidly running out of space within. He takes no comfort in wondering whether Jon felt the same, when he was awarded the position.

“No,” Martin says, “N-no, I—I’m not—I don’t want a _promotion_! I don’t want to be the Head Archivist. I _can’t_. Jon, he—he’s coming back, he’s going to be—”

“Martin.” Elias’s voice is so gentle. And Martin really preferred the torture to _this_.

“No. _No_. I won’t do it, I won’t— _no_.”

“It’s a little late for that.”

“Did you know? When you sent them off to stop the Unknowing, did you know it would come to _this_?” Martin demands.

“I had hoped for a different outcome. I warned Jon that Tim was a loose cannon, but he always lacked Gertrude’s unattached managerial style.”

“You could have—I don’t know! You could have _stopped them_.”

“I knew it was a risk. I had hoped Jon was far enough along in his _development_ to avoid such grievous injury, but it seems I miscalculated. An unfortunate error, but I’ll be sure not to make it again.”

“What the _hell_ are you talking about?” Martin nearly shrieks.

“Do calm down, Martin. We don’t want to distract the medical staff from their essential work.”

“I don’t _understand_.”

“You never did. Ironic, considering how deeply involved you’ve always been.”

“You sent Jon and Tim off to Yarmouth to—to _die_. And now you’re _promoting me_? Do you seriously think I’m going to accept?”

“I don’t think you have much of a choice.”

“But—”

“Listen to me, Martin. I will only say this once. I sent Jon and Tim to Great Yarmouth to stop the Unknowing. I believed Jon was powerful enough to stop the ritual with minimal intervention on my part. I allowed Tim to join them, again on the misplaced belief that Jon would keep his desire for revenge in check. Alas, even I cannot see the future. Tim detonated the explosives while himself, Jon and presumably Daisy were still inside the building. Revenge meant more to him than his life, and the lives of his co-workers. The important thing is, they _did_ stop the Unknowing. That is where our work begins.”

It hits Martin, all at once. He thought, maybe, with words, with gentle friendship, he could coax Tim back from the edge, but it hadn’t worked. It had never worked: no amount of tea or gentle words or pleas for him to take care of himself could break through Tim’s grief. And it had destroyed him. If Elias was right, they weren’t coming back from this.

He can feel himself crying again. He thinks he might be sick.

“We will have to do something about that,” Elias tuts, “That’s where Peter comes in. His work with you will be _very_ helpful.”

“I won’t do it,” Martin sobs.

“Do you need an incentive?”

The static picks up between Martin’s ears again. His breath comes to an abrupt halt in his throat, choking him. “No. Please, no. Not again. Not ag—”

The image is forced into his mind all at once: Tim and Jon, staring at one another, _Seeing_ each other, and realising there is no way out. Tim’s refusal to forgive, his last words a half-hearted attempt at a joke, his eyes burning with vindication for just a moment as he presses his thumb down on the detonator. There’s a countdown. It’s just enough time for Jon to reach Tim and push him to the ground, but they’ve barely crawled beneath the wooden stage—and Tim is screaming, struggling, trying to pull himself away so he can replace the memory of Danny’s disappearance with the destruction of the Stranger who took him, and Jon is so, _so_ scared—when the explosion rips through the museum.

Martin’s ears ring with it. The heat washes over his skin. It’s like nothing he’s experienced before; he doesn’t think he could describe it even if it was compelled out of him. His vision goes white with pain, with the flash of an explosion minutes and miles away, and yet—and yet he’s _there_.

When the sparks in front of his eyes blink out one-by-one like dying stars, he’s in a hospital, a different one to the place he’s been taken by the ambulance. There is no corporeality here. He simply floats on a plane beyond permanence and reality, observing. Beholding. 

He notices Basira sitting in a plastic chair, her head in her hands. He can feel the helplessness seeping through the corridor. Not far away, the doctors are trying to save Jon and Tim, but Martin can See the way they look at each other, sense that their work is futile, feel the agony of trying to a save a life that’s already far beyond reach alongside the impossible hope of the question: _what if?_ Just this once, _what if?_

Basira looks up. She seems to look straight at him. And Martin _Knows_ there is no coming back from this.

He gags with the force of his grief and terror. There’s something else there, too, a gleam of pleasure at the horror he is wringing from the vision Elias has supplanted in his mind. He _enjoys_ the burst of power, the way he knows where Elias’s Seeing stops and his begins.

It’s too much, all at once, like eating a gourmet meal after weeks of canned peaches. He hates the food analogy for statements, he really does, but he’s too busy vomiting into the paper bowl presented to him by a nurse he didn’t even realise had arrived to think of a better one.

“Better?” Elias asks mildly, when Martin has regained his breath.

Martin gasps, trying to speak, but it’s beyond his comprehension. His own power. The grief he feels for Jon and Tim.

“You are the Archivist now. There is no going back.”

“ _No_ ,” Martin croaks.

“Sir, I think—” the nurse begins, but Elias holds up his hand and she stops.

“Perhaps there is a statement that can bring Jon back. Perhaps I can help you protect those who are still under our care. Melanie is a loose cannon, just like Tim, and I would really prefer she were taken out of the equation now that she’s served her purpose. Likewise, Basira is useless to me without Daisy.”

“No,” Martin murmurs, “You won’t—you _won’t_ hurt them.”

“If you do your job,” Elias says, “I assure you they will come to no harm.”

“And the statement that will bring—”

“All in due course.” Elias grins again. “Now, are we in agreement?”

Martin swallows. He forces his aching eyes to Elias’s. “I’ll… I’ll do it.”

“Very good.” Elias turns to the nurse. “This man is clearly in distress. Will you call Dr Ikeji over when her break finishes? I believe she’s due back at any moment.”

The nurse stares, wide-eyed. “How—how did you—?”

Elias ignores her, turning his unpleasant grin back to Martin. “I’ll be in touch.”

And then he’s gone.

And Martin is all alone. Martin is forsaken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading!!!! i'm sorry for being so mean to Martin :((( hopefully the timeline isn't too confusing... basically, Jon's part is the "present" and Martin's is the "past", they're not happening simultaneously.
> 
> kudos and comments much appreciated, and hope you all have a wonderful day!!! next update on Wednesday :))))


	3. one more time, gotta start all over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon goes home. Martin resists the call of old friends, both past and present.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER SPECIFIC CONTENT WARNINGS: withdrawal, illness (including weight loss as a result), implied/referenced eye trauma, food mention and consumption, reference to forced Beholding, stabbing, reference to pain medication, isolation, disassociation, The Lonely (Entity), manipulation, referenced hospitalisation and coma, grief/loss, referenced canonical character death.
> 
> let me know if you have any questions about cws!!! stay safe <3
> 
> Chapter title from "Polaroid" by Imagine Dragons.

Georgie has moved flats. For a moment, as she helps Jon out of the taxi and towards the front door of the nondescript building complex, he thinks it might be a deterrent to him turning up unannounced and on the run again. But if that were true, why bring him here now? She made a bargain with death on his behalf, so he can’t pretend she doesn’t care, but an old, aching part of him is bracing for rejection even now.

He tries his best to push it aside. It almost works.

Jon does know Georgie wouldn’t move without a reason. It’s not easy to find a cat _and_ podcast friendly rental in London, and Georgie likes familiarity. He doesn’t ask, though, because he doesn’t think he can stand to receive another empty answer. And knowledge no longer feels so _necessary_. It’s bland, sitting like ash on his tongue, and he thinks the Beholding hasn’t quite left him, not until this emptiness fades.

When, at last, they make it to the actual front door after a maze of stairs (it’s very rude of the lift not to work when he’s only a week out of a coma), Georgie pauses before she places her key in the lock.

“Jon,” Georgie says, “I’m sorry.”

His heart stumbles. “What? W-what for? Georgie, why—?”

The door swings open, and Basira is standing there, arms crossed and scowl fixed on them both like it’s not the first time Jon has seen her in _months_. She hasn’t changed a bit.

Jon smiles, despite himself. “Basira.”

“Save the reunions for inside,” Basira tells him, peering over Georgie’s shoulder, “It’s not safe out here.”

“Right.” Georgie takes a fortifying breath. “Let’s go inside, Jon.”

Georgie gestures for him to go first. Jon steps across the threshold, unable to shake the feeling that he is walking into some sort of trap. It’s as if the door might grow teeth at any moment and close its jaws around him.

The moment he’s inside, he understands. Georgie’s move. Georgie’s apology.

It’s not a flat so much as a small warehouse. The walls are stripped bare, paint peeling and ancient, and the carpet has been worn down by the years, thin and hard and unyielding. There’s a sparse kitchen in one corner, which looks like a plant from an ’80s Ikea showroom, perfectly laid out and presented except for the almost excessive wear and tear. Against the far wall, stacked at even intervals between the boarded-up window, the kitchen counter and the door that presumably leads into the bathroom, is a collection of double mattresses. They all look like they’ve been slept in recently, made in a hurry or left exactly as they were, creases of restlessness in the thin covers of odd patterns and colours.

In the middle of the room is a television, which is playing some old cartoon. _Scooby Do_ , Jon thinks, and he wishes for a moment he still had the power of Beholding so he can justify this knowledge, pretend it doesn’t belong to him. A few paces away, there’s an old sofa and a leaking beanbag angled towards the pixelated screen.

And Tim is there. And Daisy. And Melanie.

Daisy is lying across the sofa, her legs resting in Melanie’s lap. Melanie has her elbow balanced against the arm of the sofa, her chin on her fist, and she’s not looking exactly in the direction of the television because there’s a vibrant pink scrap of cloth wrapped around her eyes. On her left, Tim has been nearly swallowed by the beanbag while he gesticulates at the television—presumably describing what’s going on, on Melanie’s behalf—and wolfs down a bowl of Cheerio’s, even though it’s almost three in the afternoon. The Admiral is resting by Tim’s feet, content to sleep through the commotion.

“And the real villain is… wait for it… capitalism!” Tim says, as the ghoul on the television is unmasked by Velma.

“I feel like a glorified babysitter,” Basira mutters. She clears her throat, and Daisy, Melanie and Tim all turn to the door. “Jon’s here.”

They don’t look… they’re alive, but they don’t exactly look _well_. There’s a sickly parlour to Daisy and Tim’s skin, and their eyes are sunken into shadows that seem deeper than a lack of sleep. Their faces are hollow, their shoulders too thin in the multiple, mismatched layers they’re both wearing.

Melanie doesn’t look like she’s ill, not like the other two, but it’s immediately obvious to Jon that she is injured. She picks idly at the cloth around her eyes, her fingers twitching with pain if they get too close to the wound underneath, and she seems resigned to not being able to see the television. Resigned in a way that suggests at the longevity of her injury.

“You’re all…” Jon doesn’t know what to say, so he settles on a word just adjacent to the one in his heart, the one Georgie promised him when she held out her hand and offered a way back. “Here.”

 _Home_.

“Hi, boss,” Tim says from his beanbag, “Good nap?”

“Good _nap_?” Jon splutters. “Tim, I was in a—”

“Coma. I know.” Tim’s smile falls. It’s familiar: that smile, stretched too wide, then dropping away as Tim seems to remember that happiness is not for him, not anymore. “You made it back, though. Eventually.”

Jon clears his throat. “Yeah, I—I suppose I did.”

Daisy lifts her chin a little from the sofa, although she doesn’t look inclined to move from her position. “Alright?”

“Been better,” Jon replies.

“Haven’t we all?” Melanie mutters.

“Speak for yourself,” Tim pipes up again, “I’m the epitome of health.”

Jon turns to Georgie. The secrecy, whatever its reason, has gone too far. “What’s going on? Please, Georgie, I—”

“Okay. Okay, Jon, but will you please just sit down first or at least—?”

“ _Tell me_.”

“Yes. Fine. I’ll…” Georgie puts her hand on his arm. “I’ll explain, if you promise to eat something? Or at least have some tea.”

“I could… I’ll have some tea, please. Thank you, Georgie.”

“And _sit down_ ,” Georgie tells him.

He resists the urge to wake the Admiral as he passes by. He just as desperately wants to touch Tim and Daisy and Melanie, to check they’re real, but he knows that they did not part on the best terms. If they can even call whatever went down in Great Yarmouth as a parting.

There’s a rickety camping table behind the sofa. He sits in one of the chairs and tries to resist tapping his fingers against the plastic tabletop. The others continue to watch the television while Georgie puts the kettle on, and Basira goes over to one of the double mattresses—the one arranged with absolute precision, barely an imprint of life on the pillows—and pulls a book from beneath the blanket.

He’s so lost in thought that he nearly falls from his chair when Georgie places a steaming cup of tea in front of him. It’s milky and probably full of sugar, just how he likes it, but he also gets the sense that it won’t taste right. It won’t taste familiar.

Tim cranes his neck to look at Jon from the beanbag. There’s an odd intensity in his eyes when he says, “Not as good as Martin’s, is it?”

“I haven’t even tried it yet,” Jon snaps back. He looks up at Georgie. “I’m sure it will be lovely, Georgie.”

Georgie gives him a small, sad smile. “It’s okay, Jon. I know it’s not…”

Georgie sits down. Jon holds the mug between his hands, trying to fight the gaping cold that seems to fill the flat, if it can even be called that. It’s a strange place, hollow-feeling despite the number of people crowded inside.

“You get used to it,” Melanie says.

Jon jumps again. “What?”

“This place, you get used to it,” Melanie repeats, “I can hear you breathing. It’s like you’re trying to get the feel of this place without your Eyes. I know the feeling.”

“Where are we?” Jon asks. “What is this place?”

“One of Daisy’s safehouses,” Georgie replies, “It’s—well, it’s been touched by all of the Entities. All of them but—”

“The Eye,” Jon finishes.

“Got it in one,” Tim chimes in.

“It’s not a vacuum, exactly, but it’s safe. We can’t be observed here. That’s why I couldn’t tell you about it before. The Stranger’s influence makes people forget the building is even here, the Spiral gives the impression that the door doesn’t exist to anyone who isn’t looking, the Buried soundproofed the walls, the Lonely makes the neighbours wonder if there’s anyone else in the building, the Web keeps it off the local council’s records. Do I need to go on?”

Jon shakes his head. He’s starting to understand.

“Well, after you stopped the Unknowing, Basira came to me. Things at the Institute were… not good. You and Tim were in hospital, we didn’t know if either of you would make it, and Daisy was missing—”

“Daisy was _what_?”

“A story for another time, believe me. And then there was Melanie and Martin—”

“Martin’s plan didn’t work,” Tim interrupts, his voice blunt and full of blame.

Jon curls his hand into a fist. He almost misses the severity of the burn, the twist and pull of the skin. It grounded him. “ _What did Elias do_?”

“I got the tapes quicker than I thought. He didn’t even have a safe, the arrogant bastard,” Melanie begins, her back to Jon. He looks at the knot at the back of the pink cloth, tied with care, and imagines Georgie’s hands doing it. “When I came back, I heard him through the door. He was— _torturing_ Martin. Forcing information into his mind, like he did to me. And I couldn’t just stand there, I had to do _something_. I had a knife already. I went for him.”

“And?” Jon prompts, trying to resist leaning forward in his chair.

“And Martin got in the way,” Melanie snarls, “He was so sure his plan would work. He was a _mess_. I didn’t even think he was paying attention, but he was—quick, when he had to be. I stabbed him in the shoulder. Would have been Elias’s eye, if I’d got my way. I wonder if taking away his—”

“Melanie,” Georgie murmurs.

“Is he okay?” Jon asks. He feels like he’s choking. “Is Martin okay?”

“He’s alive, Jon. He is alive.”

“You keep saying that,” Jon hisses, “But you won’t actually tell me what it _means_.”

“I must have dropped the tapes when I lunged for Elias. Or maybe when I stabbed Martin. I don’t know. Anyway, I lost the evidence.” It seems to pain Melanie to admit this. Her voice is quick and staccato, evading blame even as she seems to place it on herself entirely.

“It wasn’t your fault, Melanie.” Georgie reaches over the back of the sofa, placing her hand on Melanie’s shoulder. It seems to be such a familiar gesture that Melanie doesn’t even flinch. “The Slaughter had you. And now it doesn’t.”

“Martin,” Jon snaps, “Tell me about Martin.”

“Elias has some sectioned officers restrain me. And then he took Martin away to get ‘medical attention.’” Melanie all but spits the last part, and Jon doubts that attention of the medical sort came next. “The next time any of us saw him, he was… different.”

“Different how?”

“I was given a few weeks off. Told not to come back or I’d be arrested, more like. Apparently, I was ‘mentally unstable’ and ‘dangerous to be around.’” Melanie lifts her hands and puts air quotes around both of these statements. “I stayed with Georgie for a while, until Basira turned up on our doorstep and told us we weren’t safe, that something was going down at the Institute and we needed to hide.

“So we came here, and Basira realised the ghost bullet was still in my leg. Long story short, the Slaughter had me and then it didn’t and I realised I should probably apologise to Martin for stabbing him, even if it was an accident. I was a little high on painkillers at the time. Decision making skills were… not really there.

“I turned up at the Institute in the middle of the night, and Martin was standing on the steps outside like he—like he _Knew_ I’d be there. Daisy—who we all thought had died in Yarmouth, by the way—was sitting on the step below him, and they were both covered in dirt. I didn’t know what to do. I knew what I _wanted_ to do, which was grab both of them and drag them back here, but there was this look in Martin’s eyes.”

“What look?” Jon feels like the warehouse—the empty, hollow warehouse, that seems to swallow them all—is too small. “Melanie. What. Look?”

“The way you look at people when they have a statement,” Melanie says, her voice quiet, “He was trying not to Look at me, even though I could tell he wanted to. He just told me to take Daisy and handed over a bag of tapes and went back into the Institute before I could really process what was going on. And I did what he said. I did exactly what he said without really even thinking about it.”

“Because he compelled you,” Jon murmurs. Horror unfurls in his chest, sharp and loud, and he can’t breathe. “Martin, he—tell me he’s not—”

Georgie meets Jon’s eyes across the table. She looks sorry, sorrier than he’s ever seen her, and he thinks the world tilts as she speaks. “Martin is the new Archivist.”

* * *

Martin is getting used to the cold. It’s almost comforting. Every time he emerges from the statement, it’s still there, closing around him, circling his feet like an affectionate cat, and he thinks: _I have something to come back for_. Even this is an idle attachment, a habit-forming thought rather than a burst of affection.

Basira has started wearing a coat every time she comes into Jon’s office. _His_ office. She steps inside now, dressed in a long, black puffer jacket and a Tartan scarf tied in a neat knot overtop her hijab.

The scarf was a present from Daisy. She got it in Scotland, along with the bottle of whiskey she used to drink every time she killed a monster. It was a measurement of success, in a way: the quicker the whiskey level depleted, the better. This knowledge arrives in Martin’s mind, unprompted, and he just as quickly brushes it away like a speck of dust from his sleeve.

Basira is also holding a set of car keys, which usually means one thing, these days. “I’m heading up to Cambridge. You coming?”

Martin reorganises the notes on the latest statement so he doesn’t have to look at her. “Not this time.”

“You say that every time, you know. I’ve been keeping count.”

“Your observational skills are wasted on me, Basira,” Martin murmurs to the desk.

Basira smirks, cold and humourless. “Oh, no. I think I should be keeping a closer eye on you than ever.”

Martin raises his gaze to hers. He wills his expression to be detached, unreachable. “What does that mean, exactly?”

“Do you even care that Tim’s improving? They’re talking about bringing him out of the coma next week and you don’t—you don’t even _ask_ about him. About either of them. I thought you were _friends_.”

“I don’t think we were ever friends,” Martin replies, his voice artfully blank, “Not really.”

“Look, I hate this, too. I wish it would go away. I wish I could _make_ it go away.” Basira sighs heavily. “But Daisy is… gone. And Tim and Jon aren’t, not yet. I think we owe it to them to at least visit.”

“Then go ahead. I’m not stopping you.”

“Seriously? What is going _on_ with you, Martin?” Basira snaps.

“The statements still need reading,” Martin recites, “The Archives needs an Archivist.”

“And that’s you, is it? _The Archivist_?”

Martin blinks. “Yes.”

“Nope. Not having it. _You_ were never cut out to be the Archivist.”

“Oh?” Martin’s smile feels unfamiliar, threatening. He looks at her with a vague sense of curiosity. “I rather think I’ve found my calling.”

“Come with me to see Jon. Just once. You need to know—”

“Basira, you don’t need to tell me where you are going, or who you intend to see, every time you leave the Institute. I won’t be joining you, like I said. I have work to do.”

“Martin, this isn’t you.”

Martin smiles again. It’s a twitch of the muscles rather than an expression of feeling. “That’s alright. I’m used to being underestimated.”

“Martin—”

“Goodbye, Basira. You should leave now if you want to get to the hospital before visiting hours are over. There’s traffic on the M11.”

“Don’t do this,” Basira says.

“Is that all, Basira?”

“Martin, _don’t_.”

Martin returns to his paperwork. When he looks up, Basira is gone. He didn’t even hear her close the door. The fog has a calming, muffling effect on the world. He can take the Tube now without feeling overwhelmed, without really noticing the crowd. It’s pleasant enough, if he even feels anything adjacent to pleasure anymore.

He doesn’t even look up when a burst of static announces Peter’s arrival.

“Very good, Martin,” Peter comments.

“Your praise means nothing to me,” Martin replies, still focused on the notes accompanying the statement.

“Glad to hear it.” Peter pauses, and Martin finally looks up from his desk. “Elias wanted me to give you something. A reward, as it were. He’s impressed with how quickly you’re making your way through the Extinction statements.”

Peter places a polaroid on the desk, overtop the statement notes. Martin blinks. Martin does not let himself feel anything.

“What does Elias expect me to do with this?” Martin asks, his voice plain.

“Now, that _is_ impressive. Well done.” Peter almost smiles. “I’ll leave it with you, shall I? Items of sentimental value do not appeal to me.”

“They’re a nuisance,” Martin agrees. He studiously does not look at the polaroid as he speaks. “I’ll dispose of it in a moment. I’m almost finished with this statement.”

“Of course. As you were.” With a burst of static, Peter is gone.

Martin takes a deep, shuddering breath. He looks at the polaroid.

It was taken on Jon’s birthday, if the date scribbled at the bottom in pink marker pen is any indication. He doesn’t recognise the precise handwriting, but he thinks it must be Sasha’s. The real Sasha. She’s in the photo, too, standing just behind Jon with a grin that’s so much sunnier than any he remembers from her. Tim has his arm thrown around her, and she leans into him easily. Martin, on his other side, looks far less comfortable with the contact, but he’s doing his best to smile, too. He vaguely remembers trying inordinately hard to laugh at the joke Tim had just made, even though he didn’t get the film reference, and that’s probably why he looks so flustered and tightly-wound.

And in the middle, sitting as his desk with an empty paper plate balanced on a pile of esoteric texts, is Jon. Jon with his old glasses, before they got lost during Prentiss’s attack on the Institute, and his black hair only just streaked with grey, short and styled neatly. He’s offering a politely embarrassed quirk of the lips to the camera. It’s too small, too awkward to call a smile. He has no scars.

Melanie’s knife hurt less. Elias’s torture was kinder. Martin knows exactly why Elias has delivered this polaroid to him. It must have been Elias who took it, since he’s not in the photo himself but he almost certainly materialised when the cake was bought out. And he had hoarded it, waiting for the right time to use it as a weapon, as a test.

Very gently, Martin places the photo inside the cardboard case of Eric Delano’s posthumous statement. No. 0082107, he Knows, without even having to look at the tape within. If his plan works, the tape—and the photo—will reach someone worthier than him. Someone who still has the capacity to _feel_ , when they look at the smiling faces of friends.

He tells himself that that person is no longer him. He believes it.


	4. do you believe me? i bet you don't

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Tim discuss Martin's role in the Archives. Martin makes himself available—but not to the people who care about him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER SPECIFIC CONTENT WARNINGS: food and hunger (including references to previous need to consume statements for survival), possible disordered eating, grief/loss, swearing, suicidal ideation, discussions of past suicidal intent, isolation, The Lonely (Entity), referenced hospitalisation and injury.
> 
> lmk if you wanna talk about the cws!! like i said before, i can provide comprehensive chapter summaries if that helps :)))
> 
> Chapter title from "I Met Up With the King" by First Aid Kit....... the king, in this case, being one (1) timothy stoker.

Jon sleeps, a long and deep sleep, until something knocks him awake sometime after midnight. It takes him a moment to realise he was having a dream—a normal dream, which slips through his fingers the moment he’s awake, with no one else in it but his own warped consciousness. He stares at the ceiling and blinks and tries to remember where he is.

His stomach is twisted in knots, and his confusion slowly gives way as he identifies the feeling as hunger. A sort of childish pleasure overtakes him. _He’s hungry_. Actually hungry, for food, not a statement. He no longer needs to consume the horror of others to survive.

He unfurls from the sofa, stretching out his back, and then tiptoes across the dark warehouse space to the kitchen. The others are asleep on the mattresses: Georgie and Melanie tangled together with the Admiral curled at their feet; Daisy and Basira giving each other space, but even in rest there’s an easy closeness between them; and Tim is mostly hidden beneath a tie-dye monstrosity of a blanket, but he looks close enough to peaceful.

Jon allows himself a small smile, an indulgence, before he continues on to the kitchen. He feels like a child again, sneaking back home after another day of wandering, pushing himself further and further from home. His grandmother was as stubborn as he was. She resented him for being gone so long, resented losing another day and night to waiting for him, but she wouldn’t give it up before he did. It didn’t matter which door or window or otherwise untoward method he used to get back into the house, she would be there waiting when he returned.

The kitchen cupboards are full of cans and other non-perishable foods: pasta, rice, chopped tomatoes, soup, beans, preserved fruit and vegetables. He settles on cream of mushroom soup. He used to like that, he thinks. But as he pulls it from the cupboard, he sees that stacked behind is a can of peaches, bright and orange and strangely unfriendly, even though it’s only tin and plastic.

His hand shakes as he reaches for it, tips it out of the cupboard and into his waiting palm. A heavy, dangerous weight. The urge to cry hits him, so sudden it almost topples him over, and he has to hold on to the countertop for balance. He can’t remember the last time he cried.

Another memory of his grandmother floats to the surface, unbidden: _let’s have none of that, now_. She would meet his crying as a child with a sort of disparaging pity, hurrying him to distraction so that neither of them had to talk about it, address the reason. The few times Jon saw her cry, too, he treated it with the same perfunctory ignorance, pretended the tears weren’t there even as they sat across from one another at the table or shrunk into the confined space of her old car or stood opposite the park where she used to take his father.

He takes a deep breath. It shudders in his lungs, like a broken sail flagging in the wind.

“He never belonged in the Archives.”

Jon nearly drops the peaches. His heart is roaring in his ears. “ _Tim_.”

Tim steps further into the kitchen. Someone must have cooked earlier; the light is still on above the oven, casting warm shadows onto the tiles. It makes Tim look younger, the orange glow catching on his scars and turning them soft.

“Do you know how long you’ve been staring at those peaches?” Tim murmurs. His voice is far from soft, despite its quietness. “Bet I can guess who you’re thinking about.”

“Tim.” Jon sounds like he’s begging. “Please. Not now.”

“Why was he down there, Jon? What bought Martin to the Archives?”

“It wasn’t _me_. I didn’t request his assistance, not like—”

“Not like me and Sasha.”

“Yes.” Jon sighs, leans into the counter. “Not like you and Sasha.”

“Elias chose him. Elias chose him _for a reason_. And all the while, you treated him like he—like he had no right to even _breathe_ in the same room as you—”

“I’m aware of—”

“No, Jon. I don’t think you are. You treated him like _shit_. To tell the truth, we all did! I spent the first six months taking the piss and then I just—I basically pretended he didn’t exist after we found out about—and none of us, _none of us_ , thought about why he was really there, did we? We got used to him making cups of tea and helping out and going on your wild goose chases and—”

“Tim, calm down.”

“ _Don’t_ tell me to calm down,” Tim growls, “Elias has him, and it’s _our fault_.”

“On that, we agree,” Jon murmurs.

“Oh, do we now?”

“Tim—”

“Stop it! Stop just—saying my name like I’m—I’m _not_ overacting, not this time.”

“I know.”

“We were all thinking it, weren’t we? _Why is he down here_? But none of us really looked any deeper. And here we are.”

Jon doesn’t know what to say to that. He places the canned peaches down on the countertop with more gentleness than he knew he was capable of.

After a while, Tim speaks again into the silence: “He never gave up on us, you know? Before we left for Yarmouth, he hugged me. I didn’t even hug him back. I just stood there like a… heh, well, like a waxwork, I guess. And he told me to come back.”

“You weren’t planning on coming back,” Jon whispers.

“No. No, I wasn’t. And he knew that, too. But he said: _come back. You’re allowed to come back_.” Tim stares down at the cold tiles beneath their feet. He’s wearing odd socks. “Thought about it all the way there. And then I stared out the window of that _godawful_ B&B—seaview my arse—and I thought about Danny. I imagined having a conversation with him. It’d been such a long time since I thought of him without seeing that fucking _clown_.”

Jon is afraid to shatter the truce, fragile and new as it seems.

“If I’m going to claw my way back from—from wanting to die, from wanting not to exist, as long as I have revenge, because that was where I was. And I’m _not_ going back,” Tim continues, finally meeting Jon’s eyes, “If I’m going to claw my way back, I need a reason. So I’m not letting Marin go. Not like Danny, not like Sasha. We’re getting him back.”

Jon is afraid to hope. He cannot put a response into words.

“He’s tougher than we ever gave him credit for,” Tim adds with a rueful smile.

“Yeah,” Jon says on a shaking exhale.

“Survived off canned peaches for two weeks. That takes guts.”

Jon feels his lips quirk into a not-quite smile. “I never liked peaches myself.”

“Me neither. Too slimy.”

They lapse into silence.

“You’re going to pull yourself together, Jon. Got it?” Tim presses on.

“I’m not as powerful as I—”

“Oh, shut up. Keep pretending you don’t care if you want, but how did that go last time? You don’t need to be some all-powerful Eye god to get him back, so I’m not accepting that excuse.”

Jon takes a deep breath. Steels himself. “Do you have a plan?”

“Not yet.”

Jon resists the urge to roll him eyes. “First thing tomorrow, then.”

“What?”

“We need a plan—and a damn good one at that—if we’re going to get Martin back. We’ll start first thing tomorrow.” Jon fixes his eyes on Tim’s. “Failure isn’t an option.”

Tim almost smiles. “Right-o, boss. That’s more like it.”

Jon tries to smile, but it’s as half-hearted as Tim’s. “Can you tell me how on _earth_ this microwave works?”

“Work it out yourself. I’m going back to bed.”

“Thank you, Tim. That’s very helpful.”

Tim lifts a hand lazily in response, his back to Jon as he slinks back towards his mattress. “Oh, you’re welcome.”

* * *

“Oh, Martin. Sorry. I didn’t see you there,” Rosie says, looking startled, even though it’s Martin’s office and he’s been sitting at the desk the entire time. “I was just coming to, uh, check in. Someone called Simon-something—I don’t know if that’s last name Simon, as in… Simon & Schuster?”

“That’s an odd example,” Martin says, although he doesn’t feel present in the conversation. It’s like someone else is speaking through his mouth. “Unless someone else wants to write an exposé on the Institute. In that case, you should direct the enquiry to Elias.”

“No, it’s not about… Maybe I should have gone with Paul Simon. Statement regarding spooky goings-on in Graceland. God, that sounds like something Tim would say. I just—I was thinking about Tim earlier, so that’s probably why I went with the first example.” She takes a deep breath. “I heard he’s on the mend. A miraculous recovery. He always did love proving people wrong.”

Martin doesn’t say anything.

“Have you… seen him?” Rosie ventures.

“No.”

“Oh.”

“What did you need again, Rosie?”

“Well, this Simon says he’s been trying to reach you on your mobile, but he hasn’t been able to get through. He wants to give a statement in person, but he won’t let me book him in using that new online system.” She shifts uncomfortably, then speaks into the silence he allows to expand and swallow the room: “I bought you a phone charger from lost property. I thought you might have lost yours, like after the worms?”

“Thank you, Rosie,” Martin says, “If that’s everything?”

“Yes. I’ll just… leave it here. And you’ll talk to Simon?”

“I will. Thank you, Rosie.”

“Let’s hope Garfunkel doesn’t call next week.”

Martin doesn’t react to the joke. He might have found it funny once. He certainly would have laughed, to make her feel better, to diffuse the awkwardness. Instead, he returns to his work until he looks up and she is simply gone. There’s a phone charger sitting on his desk. It has a sticker on it, too faded to really make out, but it looks like one of the characters from Mario Kart.

He plugs the phone in using the socket nearest to the desk. He forgets about it, until the phone comes on midway through an email to Sonya he didn’t even realise he was writing, and his ringtone startles him back into his body.

He hesitates. He reaches from the phone.

**Tim:** new phone who dis?

**Tim:** just kidding. it’s me, tim. from work.

There’s a break in the messages, and then a photo pops onto the screen. It’s Tim, sitting up in a hospital bed and giving the peace sign. He’s hooked up to a collection of monitors off-screen, wearing a nasal cannula, and they seem to have shaved his hair while he was in the coma. Bandages and gauze still cover parts of his face and neck, but he’s grinning.

**Tim:** i lived bitch

Another breath. Martin doesn’t let it shudder. A series of messages flood in again, although each with different date and time stamps:

**Tim:** sorry that was Not Good. not a good thing to send right now. I’m sorry Martin

**Tim:** I’m so sorry

**Tim:** basira tells me they’re working on something to help jon. have you talked to her recently?

**Tim:** if you’re visiting any time soon, do u think u could bring me some shirts. the gaudier the better. hospital gown is washing out my complexion :/

**Tim:** martin… did your phone get stolen by a worm queen again?????

**Tim:** ok i’m actually worried about this now??

**Tim:** no that’s stupid i’ve seen basira and she didn’t mention worms. i feel like she would have mentioned worms if there was a worm problem

**Tim:** shit martin i don’t know what to do. i didn’t think i’d be here after… you said come back. i came back.

**Tim:** I came back.

**Tim:** we’re the only ones left. it’s just us. And I don’t want to be alone.

**Tim:** Fine. i know i fucked up. i know. so i deserve this. i just want you to know i’m sorry. you were always kind to me. to all of us. we didn’t deserve it really but you still were. and i treated you like shit. i’m sorry. if i see you again i’ll do better.

**Tim:** Martin please don’t Do This

**Tim:** i’m not meant to be making these sorts of jokes anymore but i really would rather fucking die than let elias have you. so if you’re reading this, i’m gonna stop texting you now. but i’m not going to stop trying to get you back, ok? so just… be there. please? it’s ok to come back.

Martin closes the message window. He places his phone on silent and puts it to one side. He hopes Simon calls soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hmmmmm i wonder who this simon person is...........
> 
> i updated the fic summary and the number of chapters as i'm getting very close to the end of writing/planning, and i know what shape this thing is taking now. exciting times :))) 
> 
> please leave kudos and comments if you enjoyed!!!!! hope everyone has a great weekend, next update on Monday <3


	5. lets you eat all night and never quite feel whole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the safehouse, Jon and the old Archives crew consolidate their knowledge. Months before, Martin receives an unsettling delivery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER SPECIFIC CONTENT WARNINGS: food, addiction and withdrawal (in reference to statements/Entities), isolation, manipulation, The Lonely (Entity), implied/referenced eye trauma, mortality, unreality, The Spiral (Entity), brief references to canonical character deaths (Sasha, Martin's mother).
> 
> very tired today, nearly wrote "content specific chapter warnings". does that work as a sentence???? who knows. anyhow, chapter title from "Ghosts of Happiness" by The Tree Ring.

Jon’s still awake when the others start to stir. Basira is up first, barely after six a.m. according to the clock hanging on the wall, although Jon is not sure it’s to be trusted if this place really has been touched by the Spiral. Melanie wakes before Georgie, makes her way to the bathroom and runs a bath, water pounding against plastic as it fills the tub. The Admiral has taken her place next to Georgie, who’s still dozing, never one for early mornings.

“Basira,” Jon says quietly, still seated at the table with the bowl of mushroom soup he scraped empty at around 4 a.m., the way a child might wolf down ice cream presented to them at the weekend, as a treat.

Basira hums from the kitchen, where she’s making coffee for herself and a tea for Jon. “Let me guess: more questions?”

“Daisy and Tim…”

“They’re asleep,” Basira states.

“Yes, I know, but—”

“They don’t get up much before midday, these days.” Basira fixes him with an indecipherable look, stood behind the kitchen counter, as she fills their mugs with boiling water. “I think that’s relevant to whatever question you’re going to ask.”

“They’re… in withdrawal?” Jon ventures.

Basira places the kettle back on the stand. “I guess you could call it that.”

“But you—you’re not affected by it. Not like they are.”

“I’ve been going back to the Institute. I know my way around the tunnels now; I can get in and out without too much trouble. Elias hasn’t tried to stop me yet.”

“Are we sure that’s a good thing?”

“What, you think he’s onto us? It’s possible.” Basira brings her coffee and his tea over to the table, and sits down opposite him. “But I think we’re safe, for now. All of his focus is on Martin.”

Jon tries not to flinch. “How do you…?”

“You remember how in the Archives, you felt like you were being watched _constantly_ , no matter where you went? It’s… different now. When Martin isn’t near his office, it’s almost quiet. I don’t know how to explain. Peaceful feels like the wrong word. But I was there once—a wrong time, wrong place kinda situation—when Martin was coming back to the office, and it felt like this _pressure_ in my mind. Like he was bringing Elias’s focus with him.”

“Did you see him?” Jon murmurs into his tea.

“Just through the door.”

“And?”

“And he looked like Martin.” Basira huffs a small, humourless laugh. “No extra eyes, nothing out of the ordinary. There was fog coming beneath the door, though.”

Jon resists a shiver, closing his hands around the cup of tea. “Fog?”

“Yeah. I thought maybe it was smoke, at first. I mean, fog inside, that’s—well, I guess nothing’s unusual these days. But it was cold. It was… lonely.”

“The Lonely,” Jon murmurs.

“What was that?”

“The Lonely. It’s one of the Entities, associated with the Lukas family.”

“I know about the Lonely, Jon. What did you _mean_ by it?”

“I’ve been theorising about Martin’s role at the Archives. I think he was placed there by Elias for a reason, and if that reason was to be my replacement…” Jon sighs. He wishes he’d gone back to sleep after the soup. “I think I was marked by the Web, when I arrived at the Institute. Sasha, I’m not sure about, but it could be any of the Entities considering her history in Artefact Storage. Tim had already had an encounter with the Stranger. What had Martin experienced that made Elias _chose_ him?”

“You think it might be the Lonely?” Basira’s lips twist, almost sympathetically. “Makes sense, if you think about it. It draws in people who are susceptible to isolation.”

“But Martin, he—he—”

“Made a lot of tea and tried to keep everyone happy while we all fell apart in our own little ways? You kept him at arm’s length, Tim ignored him the moment he started reading statements. He spent all that time with someone who _replaced_ his friend, not knowing the difference.” Basira meets his eyes over the rim of her coffee mug before taking a sip. She sits back in her chair, mug still raised while she observes him. “He’s always been lowercase lonely. Maybe it was only a matter of time before _the_ Lonely got him, if it didn’t before he even came to the Institute.”

Jon drags his hand over his face. “Christ.”

“You called?” Tim sing-songs, materialising beside the table wrapped in the tie-die blanket, his hair a shocking mess of brown curls.

Jon grabs hold of the table, trying not to topple it—and himself—from the shock. He looks between Tim and Basira. “I thought you said he doesn’t get up before midday?”

“I did,” Basira replies, “You feeling alright, Tim?”

“Not at all. Terrible headache, everything hurts, but we’ve got a planning session to get to,” Tim replies cheerily.

Basira quirks an eyebrow. “Right. And what is it you’re planning?”

“The Rescue Martin K Blackwood Mission.” Tim frowns. “What? Oh, fine. I’ll think of a better name when I’ve had breakfast.”

Jon finds himself oddly caught on part of Tim’s reply. “Martin _K_ Blackwood?”

“Oh, yeah. Never could figure out what his middle name is. He wouldn’t tell me and…” Tim goes quiet, in that way he does whenever his sentence was meant to finish with Sasha. He curls the horrible blanket around him, nestling his stubble-covered chin deeper into its warmth. “Anyway. Breakfast. And then plans.”

“Do you need a statement?” Basira asks.

“Nope,” Tim replies, popping the p, as he makes his way to the kitchen.

“Are you sure?”

“Yep.” Another pop at the end.

“That’s why you’ve been going back to the Institute,” Jon realises, “You and Tim have been reading statements.”

“ _I’ve_ been reading statements. And Tim’s been… well.”

“My five a day doesn’t include eldritch horror,” Tim declares, his voice echoing as he digs around the cupboards, “I’m going cold turkey.”

“It’s making you ill,” Jon murmurs.

“I’d rather be like this than evil.” The upper half of Tim’s body appears over the countertop once again. He’s holding a pot of instant porridge, looking proud of his discovery. “No offence, Basira.”

Basira shrugs. “None taken.” She turns to Jon. “We have different opinions when it comes to the statements.”

“I think they’re a vessel for evil. And Basira thinks they’re a tasty McMeal of Horror.”

“What about Daisy?” Jon asks, interrupting the tension that seems to be building between Basira and Tim. “She’s… the Hunt?”

“It’s her story to tell,” Basira says, her voice softening, “But since the Buried, she’s been resisting it.”

“Withdrawal buddies,” Tim chimes in from the kitchen.

“ _Tim_ ,” Basira warns.

“Sorry, Basira, but humour is my coping mechanism.”

Jon pushes through their animosity with another question: “And Melanie?”

“Again, her story,” Basira replies, “I’m not giving you the details. Let’s just say she found a way to escape the Eye. Or—well, I suppose Martin was the one who found it. And she followed through.”

“I’m still contemplating whether to join her,” Tim says, while the microwave churns his pot of porridge into something edible, “I’m not usually this indecisive. It’s just… a lot.”

Jon thinks of the pink cloth tied around Melanie’s eyes. He thinks of the shadows on her face as she slept. “Will she tell me?”

“You’ll have to ask her yourself.”

“If she ever gets out of the bath,” Tim adds, “Georgie won’t go to Tescos for Cheerio’s, but she treks all the way to Lush to get her girlfriend a bath bomb? Rude.”

Basira grins and sips her coffee. “I love seeing misandry in action.”

Tim nearly drops his pot of porridge when he takes it out of the microwave. He places it down on the counter and shakes his burnt fingers. “That’s not what I was implying. Maybe I also want to feel cherished. Maybe I, too, want to smell like flowers and the sweet summer breeze.”

“Timothy Stoker, king of self-care?” Georgie grumbles, sitting up on her mattress but only looking half-awake. The Admiral has stirred beside her, similarly ensnared in lingering sleep. They both squint across the room at Tim. “Now that’s what I call character development.”

Tim lifts his pot of porridge. “And I’ll toast to that.”

Jon almost smiles. It’s been a long time since he’s seen Tim like this, cracking jokes and bouncing around in a jovial bubble of energy despite the way the withdrawal is clearly ailing him. He watches Tim round the kitchen counter and throw himself into the beanbag by the television. His usual spot, apparently.

“You’ve been going out,” Jon says, glancing between Basira and Georgie, “How do you know Elias isn’t Watching?”

“Well, the Beholding isn’t best pals with the End. That’s why you had to cut ties with it when I helped you back,” Georgie explains, matter of fact, “See, there’s one thing no one knows, not even the Archivist: what happens when you die? That’s the million-dollar question. And it gives us End-aligned individuals a certain immunity to being Seen. Like an umbrella, I guess.”

“And I’ve been using the tunnels the whole time,” Basira adds, “When I need to get into them from here, I just ask Helen.”

Jon stares. “Helen? _Helen_ ’s been helping you?”

“Yeah. She seems invested in seeing how this whole situation plays out. Not sure yet if it’s altruistic, but her doors have come in handy.”

“Right. And you don’t get lost?”

“It’s… I don’t know how to explain.” Basira sighs. “It’s the same way I knew how to get out in Yarmouth. I just hold onto something and keep going.”

“And when you say ‘something’…?”

“Nothing tangible. It’s just a feeling.”

“A sort of internal strength or integrity,” Georgie adds, “That’s my theory. Basira told us she took a statement from a guy who just _left_ the Spiral, after six hours, because he was late for tea with his mother.”

“Wouldn’t shut up about his dog,” Basira mutters.

Tim has put the television on, and he seems to be watching one of those cooking shows that manifest on every channel at the weekend. It doesn’t appear to be stopping him from following the conversation. “What breed?”

“Really, Tim?”

“What? I like dogs.”

“Jack Russel.”

Tim nods his approval, although Jon thinks he would have had this reaction to whatever breed of dog Basira offered in reply. “Nice.”

“So you’re immune to the Spiral?” Jon asks.

“Not quite,” Basira replies, “It’s more like…”

“Some minds can bend without—without, ah, breaking,” Jon finishes quietly.

Basira shrugs. “Yeah. That about sums it up.”

Jon takes a deep breath. “Right.”

“About that plan, Jon,” Tim says.

“Yes, Tim?”

“You see that big old frying pan? I bet Elias wouldn’t See that—”

“Shut up, Tim.”

Tim laughs. It’s small and weak, but it’s a genuine laugh. “Just like old times, eh, boss?”

“Exactly like old times,” Jon drawls, “If you insist on watching this drivel, you’ll be late for the first meeting of the day. And possibly the second.”

“You’re impatient,” Basira comments.

Jon meets her gaze across the table. “We have work to do.”

Basira’s lips twitch into a smile. “Is that so?”

“I’m not letting Martin go without a fight,” Jon pledges, solemn, more serious than he’s ever been—and that is a feat in and of itself.

“Cracking.” Georgie claps her hands together, and the Admiral startles and sulks away to join Tim by the television. “I’ll be with you shortly. Just need two to three cups of coffee first.”

“Take your time,” Basira says, looking pointedly at the clock. It’s now reads ten a.m., even though Jon is _sure_ they haven’t been talking for four hours.

“Urgh. Morning people,” Georgie grumbles as she rolls dramatically off the mattress and stumbles to her feet.

Basira laughs. Georgie smiles. And Jon thinks: can he really have this? There’s an absence in his heart that tells him: _no, not yet_. Not until Martin is here. Not until Martin is home.

* * *

Basira has left the Institute, to the extent that an Archival Assistant can leave the Institute. So when Martin returns to his office after another meeting with Elias and Peter, he pauses outside of the door when the Eye informs him that Basira is inside.

She’s been using the tunnels. Of course. And stealing statements, that’s why he couldn’t find Case 0161909 when he looked last week. If she’s feeding on the statements, using them to prolong her absence, is one she herself gave fulfilling enough? She would be better with one unrelated to Section 31, he thinks. A balanced diet and all that.

_No_. Martin pushes these thoughts from his mind, smooths out the concerned frown he can feel on his face. Elias could be Watching him. He can’t allow himself to care. He can’t even allow himself to think about her presence.

He wants desperately to reach into her mind, to pick out any information about Jon, about where she’s hiding. Since her departure from the Institute, Martin has been entirely cut off from any sort of update about Jon’s condition. Asking Elias or Peter is too dangerous. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone else, implicate them in his own weakness. But he’s hungry for the knowledge, in a way that still feels partly human, grown of love rather than fear.

Martin steadies himself. There’s the fog again, dancing around his ankles, slipping in lazy tendrils beneath the door. It’s nice. Familiar. He lets it carry him away. He won’t come back until Basira is gone.

If he goes to the Archives and rearranges some of the statements so they’re easy to access, he does not think about it. Elias will not pick this information from his mind.

“Oh, Martin. I’ve been looking everywhere for you. No one’s seen you all day,” Rosie says, poking her head around one of the tall bookshelves, “There was just a delivery for you. I signed for it on your behalf.”

“Thank you, Rosie.”

Rosie clears her throat. “It’s, um… it’s a coffin. Were you expecting a coffin?”

“Yes,” Martin replies, even though he wasn’t. It doesn’t faze him, though. “Where is it?”

“In Jon’s—in your office. Oh, and the delivery guy left a written statement, too. Breekon, I think his name was.”

“I’ll deal with it in a moment. Thank you for letting me know.”

“Did Simon ever get through to you?”

“Yes.”

“Was it a first or a last name? I still feel bad not knowing.”

“First.”

“Like Simon Pegg? Oh, or Simon Cowell? Not so keen on him, though.”

“I suppose.”

“Well… I’ll leave you to it. Bye!”

Martin doesn’t reply. She must leave, at some point, but he doesn’t hear her go. The Lonely is a wonderfully quiet place. Footsteps, even his own, cannot echo here. He could finally walk up the stairs in his childhood house and not wake his mother with the creaking third floorboard. Not that he has been thinking about his home or his mother.

It doesn’t matter to him, anymore, that both are gone.

When he returns to his office, the Coffin is waiting for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!!! have a great day, next update Thursday <3


	6. my only hope is to let life stretch out before me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The "Rescue Martin K Blackwood Mission" gets off to a rough start. Simon Fairchild pays the Archivist a visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER SPECIFIC CONTENT WARNINGS: swearing, the Lonely (Entity), referenced disappearances, possibly unrequited and unresolved romantic feelings, grief/loss, referenced canonical character death, withdrawal, themes of blame and survivor's guilt, attempted violence, the Buried (Entity), the Vast (Entity), the Extinction (Entity) plus corresponding themes of existential dread and inferred apocalyptic states, manipulation, isolation, insomnia, references to childhood experiences with debt, economic hardship and being a young carer. please stay safe and let me know if you have any questions!! <3
> 
> Chapter title from "Big Picture" by London Grammar (haha).

“You smell nice.”

“Fuck off, Tim,” Melanie says cheerily.

Jon sighs and digs his fingers into his eyes, trying not to allow himself to even think about being tired. “Tim, will you please _focus_?”

After her third cup of coffee, Georgie rolled out a corkboard from a cupboard Jon didn’t even realise was attached to the main space of their safehouse. Helen’s involvement seems probable, as it’s Georgie’s corkboard from her old flat. She spent the first half an hour of their meeting taking down all the flashcards and red string she’d been using for a What the Ghost? episode, and re-purposing it as the _Black(wood) Ops_ planning surface.

Thus far, Tim has contributed nothing but the name.

“Sorry, boss.” Tim tries to pull himself up from the beanbag, which seems to be swallowing him. “Just not really sure where to start.”

“Well, we’re working on the assumption that Elias deliberately assigns people to the Archives who’ve already had an encounter with an entity,” Basira says.

“Should we go ’round and share our traumatic formative experiences with the Big Spooky?” Tim asks. “Oh, or we could do entity bingo?”

“No,” Daisy says, very firmly, and there’s the end of that idea.

“So, we think Martin might already have some sort of tie to the Lonely,” Georgie says. She somehow phrases it kindly, but there’s a collective inhale of sympathy around the table as they process this. “Any ideas why that might be important to Elias?”

“The Lukas family are patrons of the Institute,” Jon offers.

Tim shuffles in his seat. The beans inside the bag shift, making an odd, crunching sound. “You don’t think the Lukas family ask for, like, a yearly sacrifice or something?”

“Not yearly, no. Martin has been at the Institute for nearly ten years. And as far as I’m aware, there have been no disappearances of Institute staff—not withstanding those linked to Artefact Storage—besides Gertrude and her Assistants.”

Tim blinks at Jon. “I thought you’d dismiss that idea out of hand.”

“It’s a possibility. An unlikely one, but…” Jon sighs. “Do we have any contacts inside the Institute?”

“Elias might be watching them.”

“Basira said Elias’s focus was entirely on Martin.”

“I have a few friends I was still close with,” Tim ventures, “Before everything went to shit.”

“Before which specific incident of everything going to shit?” Melanie asks.

“I actually stayed in touch with a few people right up until Yarmouth. Mainly because our research interests aligned, though.”

Jon sighs. He doesn’t want to ask the next question, for the most part because if there was one benefit to being secluded in the Archives, it was the significantly reduced likelihood of small talk with other employees whose names who he could never remember. Let alone the names of their children or pets, who seemed to crop up in conversation as if Jon should automatically be aware of them. “Who?”

“Nathan, that PhD student who’s always in the library at odd hours. His thesis is on the _blurred boundary between societal_ _unease surrounding clowns and actual supernatural manifestations relating to the circus_.” Tim makes his voice academic and stuffy for the last part, and Jon has a strong suspicion it’s modelled on him. “Or something like that.”

“Oh, I know him,” Melanie says, “I swear he’s always playing online chess, though. Never actually doing work.”

“Sounds about right. He used to send me requests to join his online team all the time,” Tim explains, “There’s Chris from Artefact Storage."

"Who?" Melanie and Daisy ask at the same time. 

"You probably wouldn't know them. They’re the Institute expert on Cyrillic texts, so we spent a lot of time together when I first started and was still outright looking for Danny. Dated them for a few months, but we talked about work all the time and it didn't really work out. Stayed friends after, mainly because we go to the same gym. And they seem to work out in the middle of the night, too, which means we would bump into each other even when I was having that, uh…”

“Breakdown?” Melanie offers, not unkindly.

“Yep.”

“They left the Institute a few months ago. Got engaged to some Canadian and moved to Toronto,” Basira says. They all look at her, and she levels a defensive glare at the room at large. “What? I pay attention.”

“Who else?” Melanie asks.

“Rosie, I guess.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Jon says immediately.

“Jon,” Georgie says warningly, “At least let Tim explain.”

“It’s a long story. Sasha—” Tim seems to choke on the name. He swallows, his throat bobbing, before continuing. “She set us up. I went along with it because—well, I didn’t want things to be weird.”

“How is dating a co-worker not ‘making things weird’?”

“First of all, Basira, that’s ironic considering—”

Daisy’s eyes flash. “ _Tim_.”

“Secondly, I didn’t mean weird between me and Rosie. Me and…” Tim coughs, turns his face away. “I didn’t want her to feel bad, thinking I was hung up on her. Which I was, but… yeah. Rosie’s nice, so. We went out a few times, but then Jane Prentiss turned up and things fizzled out.”

“And you were helplessly in love with someone else?” Melanie adds.

“Yes, but Rosie knew about that.”

Basira turns to Jon. “Really?”

Jon massages his forehead. “You know I don’t engage in office gossip.”

“I was upfront about it, and she’d just got divorced, anyway, so we were taking things—”

“I feel like we’re drifting off track,” Georgie says, not unkindly.

“Rosie might actually be able to help,” Basira suggests.

“No,” Jon and Tim say simultaneously.

“Fine. In that case, can we move on from Tim’s relationship history?”

“Please,” Tim pleads, “Shouldn’t have said anything. I have almost certainly overshared and I have many regrets.”

“Gladly moving on.” Georgie clears her throat. “Right, so everyone who ends up working in the Archives has already encountered an entity, presumably in a traumatic enough way to—how did you put it, Jon? Leave a mark?”

“Precisely.”

“But that also doesn’t seem to be exclusive, because you’ve all become linked to the Eye in some way since signing your contracts. Like Tim, you clearly have a strong connection to the Stranger, but being away from the Institute—and presumably the Eye—is making you ill.”

“What does that mean, though?” Melanie asks. “There’s no limit on how many entities can fuck you over? They don’t get first dibs or whatever?”

“The function of the Institute, and the Archives specifically, is to keep a record of the entities,” Jon says. He feels curiosity enter his voice, his tone experimental, contemplative, and it’s almost what his early days at the Institute could have been like if he didn’t push the sceptic act so hard. “There are clearly alliances between some of the entities. Gertrude references times when they worked together, and I’ve also read statements that suggest at collaboration.”

Georgie clicks her fingers in agreement. “So maybe the Beholding can bring all of the entities together, even the ones that don’t get along? But for what purpose?”

“Knowledge. Observation,” Basira murmurs.

“Yes, but there has to be _more_ to it than that,” Tim says, “Because I don’t think Elias is skulking and plotting for the sole purpose of having a comprehensively organised Archive. A disorganised work space is _not_ an excuse to commit unspeakable evil.”

“Speak for yourself,” Daisy retorts, and Basira seems to tip her head slightly in agreement.

“So what does Elias _want_?” Georgie asks.

“That is a question I’ve asked before, with little success.” Jon taps the table, deep in thought. “He seemed to be an unambitious and, to be quite honest, unremarkable employee. His promotion was a surprise to almost everyone.”

“So… he’s up to something. He’s definitely up to something.” Tim growls in frustration. “We’re going in circles.”

“What about a ritual?” Georgie suggests. “Has the Eye ever attempted one?”

Jon frowns. “Elias seems determined to stop any ritual from progressing.”

“Yeah, but they were the rituals of _other_ entities,” Tim interrupts, “He could just be eliminating the competition.”

“I’m not so sure. The Eye feeds off knowledge. There is plenty of it in the world as it exists now.”

“Oh, _come on_. Elias doesn’t _care_ about stopping the end of the world, not really.”

“I never got the impression that he actively wanted the world to end.”

“He killed Gertrude, maybe because she was getting too good at stopping the rituals. _She_ never trusted Elias, and Sasha told me Gertrude was a stone-cold bitch.”

Melanie tips her head in approval. “I respect that.”

“Gertrude wasn’t what she seemed, but—”

Tim tugs at his own hair. “Jon, seriously, think about it. You’re telling me, with all his powers of Knowing, that Elias was confident we’d all come back from Yarmouth in once piece?”

“He told me to go alone,” Jon says, meeting Tim’s eyes, “Just as Gertrude would have done. I’m not certain Elias intended to lose four members his Archival team in an explo—”

Tim manages to leap out of the beanbag. He stumbles into the table, nearly knocking it over before clinging to its edge and looming over Jon. “Look, I’m sorry. I’m _sorry_ if I thought it was a worthwhile sacrifice, our lives to stop the Unknowing.”

“That is not what I’m saying.” Jon can feel his calm slipping the more he tries to drag it back. “If Elias _cultivated_ the Archives, and our relationship with it, as is our working theory, why lose four of us to stop a single ritual?”

“Because we knew too much?”

“We aren’t the only ones who knew. Martin and Melanie—”

“Fuck this,” Tim snaps, pushing away from the table and nearly tipping it onto its side, “I’m going—”

“Tim, you can hardly walk and it’s not safe for you outside,” Georgie says.

Tim turns on Jon again. “Elias sent us to our deaths because we’re a disposable part of his grand plan. Maybe Martin is, too, and we’re _running out of_ —”

Jon stands, just as abruptly as Tim. “Do you think I’m not aware of what Elias might do—might have already done—to Martin?”

“Then _why_ are you defending him?”

“I am trying to understand him. To understand what he _wants_ with us. With Martin.”

“I thought we’d all come to the conclusion that he was dangerous and he needed to be out of the way. Wasn’t that why we were plotting to send him to prison?”

“Yes, and that plan failed. Elias will not be easy to eliminate unless we understand the _reason_ behind his—”

“So you always thought Martin’s plan would fail?”

“No, that’s not what I—”

“Maybe we should take a break,” Georgie says, “Have some lunch?”

“Did you really think being in prison was going to subdue him?” Tim demands, ignoring Georgie’s attempt at an intervention.

Jon grips the edge of the table. He can feel the skin pulling taught over his knuckles as he tries to control the beast of fury stirring inside of him. “I thought it would be a start.”

“And a convenient reason to leave Martin behind.”

“ _No._ That’s not why—”

“Elias is dangerous. I’m starting to think Melanie had the right idea all along with her constant attempts to stab him.”

Melanie throws her hands up in vindication. “ _Thank you_.”

“And if he’s right about being a dead man’s switch?” Jon snaps.

“We’re getting _nowhere_.”

“We’re getting nowhere because you refuse to look beyond your hatred for Elias. I despise him, too. But our hatred means nothing to him. He has a plan beyond any of us, and we have to _analyse_ —”

“Oh, you’re going back to the detached academic act, are you? The sceptic? Good fucking luck with that.”

“That is _not_ what I’m doing.”

“Can you even admit to caring about Martin?”

“Of course I _care_!”

“Because you seem to be trying very hard not to. Never mind that it was your facade of professionalism, or whatever the _hell_ it was you were doing at the start, that got Sasha—”

“I cared about Sasha, Tim, just like you.”

“No. No, _I_ loved her. And you—you took her job and you—”

“I didn’t ask to be the Archivist!”

“You didn’t say no! And I definitely remember you saying we shouldn’t destroy the table, even though you only had to skim-read a couple of statements to know it had _Taken_ other people! It’s not what you _did_ , Jon; it’s what you _didn’t do_.”

“I don’t know what you expect from me,” Jon hisses, “I tried to protect you, all of you, but I cannot control what _you_ do or don’t do. I can’t stop Melanie from wanting to kill Elias, I couldn’t stop you from detonating—”

Tim lunges for Jon. There’s a flash of movement out of the corner of Jon’s eye, and he doesn’t know why he is able to focus on this and not Tim moments away from striking him. It’s like the periphery is clearer, safer.

There’s a grunt, a scuffle, and then Daisy has shoved Tim back onto the beanbag with a force she no longer looks capable of. 

“Enough,” Daisy snaps. She looks over her shoulder at Jon, and her eyes seem to flash red for the briefest of moments before fading back to a dull blue-green. “We _will_ save Martin, but not if we kill each other first.”

“Tim, why don’t you have a lie down?” Georgie suggests.

“I’m not a child. I don’t need a nap.” But Tim sulks over to the mattresses and throws himself onto the middle one, drawing the tie-die blanket almost over his head like he doesn’t want to be seen. “Wake me up when you’ve managed to remove Jon’s head from his own arse.”

“Real mature, Tim,” Melanie says.

Tim sticks his middle finger over the edge of the blanket. “I’m giving you the finger.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I can tell.”

“Jon,” Georgie says, kind but firm, “We’re taking a break.”

Jon shakes his head. “We don’t have—”

“Come and help me feed the Admiral.” Georgie puts her hand on his shoulder. “We’ll come back to this straight after.”

Jon sighs. “Fine. _Fine_.”

Georgie gives his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “C’mon. Before he starts wailing and keeps Tim awake.”

* * *

“ _The Eye has marked me for something, of this I have no doubt. My humble hope is that it may be a swift death, an accidental effect of your own researches, which I once again implore you to abandon. It is likely too late for me, but I will_ not—” Martin blinks. “Statement ends. The letter stops abruptly, and there does not appear to be any further correspondence between Smirke and Jonah Magnus, at least none that reached the Archives. Smirke was found—”

“Knock, knock,” comes a gleeful voice through the half-open door of the office.

Martin stands and rounds the desk, opening the door with what he thinks is a smile, although he’s sure he wouldn’t see it if he looked in a mirror. He doesn’t think about how he hasn’t looked in a mirror for a long, long time. “Mr Fairchild, come in.”

“Oh, please, call me Simon.” Simon steps into the room, then stops immediately when he sees the Coffin. “Oh, dear. That’s not what you want to see on a Tuesday afternoon.”

“I can have it moved elsewhere,” Martin offers.

“No, no, I won’t put you out. I’m sure it poses no immediate threat, but I don’t like to be reminded of the Buried. No matter.” Simon grins, his teeth remarkably kept for someone who seems to be nearing one hundred years old. “Now, as I said on the phone, I thought it time we had a little chat. Or a big chat, really, considering the subject matter.”

“Right, yes, of course,” Martin says, feeling not quite there, “Take a seat.”

Simon settles into the chair Martin had dragged into the office before starting the most recent statement. He shuffles around exaggeratedly until he seems to find a comfortable position. Martin returns to his own chair on the other side of the desk, and places Smirke’s letter into the bottom drawer of his desk.

“You have had statements from my lot, haven’t you? And by my lot, I mean all those people who said I did horrible things to them and their loved ones? I’d hate to think I’m underrepresented in here, not when Peter tells me that that bone fellow has at least half a dozen—”

“No, no, not at all. You’ve sent plenty of people our way.”

“Brilliant! Well, I thought it was about time that I came and gave a statement of my own. Or at least introduced myself to the new Archivist!” Simon’s grin doesn’t waver throughout. “I know you’re usually the one asking the questions, but I want to be as helpful as I can while I’m here, so… do _you_ have anything you want to ask _me_?”

“I, uh…” Martin takes a deep breath. There is no room for error, for wavering, not in such company. Simon may look harmless, but Martin knows—and _Knows_ —that he is not all he seems. “You seem to be friendly with Peter.”

“As much as anyone can be, yes.”

“Has he ever spoken to you about the Extinction?”

“Ah, yes. I do recall him mentioning it once or twice. Shall we compare notes, as it were? What has he told you about the Extinction?”

“Peter claims there is a fifteenth entity emerging.”

Simon nods eagerly. “The Extinction.”

“Yes, that’s what we’re—yes. Peter is concerned that the Extinction, by its very nature, has the power to make the world anew, to draw power away from the other fears while manifesting the collective terror of humanity, which is its ceasing to exist. He believes it’s an active fear that could obliterate life as we know it.”

“Very well put.”

“So… he’s telling the truth?”

“So far.”

“So far?”

“Do you have more questions? Please, ask away.”

“Peter insists only an Archivist with a strong connection to the Lonely can prevent the Extinction from manifesting.”

Simon beams. “And you’re the Archivist! And you’re already doing so well! Really, I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.”

Martin forces his eyes away from Simon's, finding a point over his shoulder to fixate on. “What do you know about the Panopticon of Millbank Prison?”

“Peter tells me it’s essential to his plans,” Simon replies thoughtfully, “Sounds like a ghastly place to me—I don’t like to be so far beneath the ground—but I do think there’s some weight behind the theory.”

“How so?” Martin asks, infusing his voice ever so gently with compulsion.

“The Panopticon was designed to bring the fourteen entities into balance. I don’t believe Jonah Magnus was able to unbalance the underlying purpose of the architecture, or else his ritual—the Ceaseless Watcher, is it?”

“The Watcher’s Crown,” Martin supplies. There's a burst of static behind his words, fizzing inside of his ears, and he isn't sure how he acquired this knowledge, whether it's his own or offered by his patron. 

“Yes, that’s it. Well, if Jonah _had_ succeeded in altering Smirke’s original idea, the Watcher’s Crown would have succeeded also,” Simon continues, “So it stands to reason that the Panopticon has kept its original, intended function.”

“And you believe that if the Archivist _fixes_ all the entities to the Panopticon, it will prevent the emergence of the Extinction?”

“Yes, more than likely.” Simon leans forward in his chair. “I’m sure some of my counterparts won’t like the idea, but those of us aligned with the Vast are rather good at seeing the _big picture_.”

“It would limit the other entities, then?”

“I imagine so. Insomuch as fear can have limits. Of course, I doubt I’ll be affected. My realm deals specifically with the limitless, and we’re not easy to shake off.”

“Right.” Martin sighs, leaning his elbow against the desk and placing his face against his palm. “That was… actually helpful. Thank you.”

“You sound weary, Martin,” Simon comments, “Are you getting enough sleep?”

Martin laughs into the hand covering his eyes. “No, not nearly.”

“It must be stressful, trying to stop the end of the world.”

Martin hums, not exactly in agreement, and finds his eyes drifting to the Coffin again. It would be unnerving, if he had it in him to feel unnerved anymore. It sits in his office and when it rains, it sings. He knows Daisy is in there. He doesn’t know how to get her out.

“You’re not thinking of going in there, are you?” Simon asks.

Martin lets his hand drop form his face. “If I was, do you have any advice?”

Simon leans back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. “Well, I can tell you what _not_ to expect, seeing as the Buried is the opposite of what I do.”

“Oh. Okay?”

“Have you ever been on a rollercoaster, Martin?”

“No.”

“Never?”

“Never.” There had been a school trip to a theme park, a long time ago. He thinks he must have only been in Year 8. It was too expensive, and he couldn’t afford to spend the day so far away from home, in case his mother needed him. And besides, it was an award for good attendance, which ruled him out.

Martin shoves this information away. Its arrival, its lingering presence, irritates him.

“We’ll have to change that!” Simon exclaims, a little too gleeful. “And we don’t even need to leave this room. Are you ready? Deep breaths. It might help to keep a hold of something in your mind, if you’re hoping make it back from the void. And I’m sure you are, seeing as you have the end of the world to prevent. Chose an anchor, then, as it were. And one, two—”

Before Simon makes it to three, Martin’s stomach swoops, and his office disappears, and he’s swallowed by the Vast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!!!! comments and kudos are the best, thank you to everyone who's left them and hope you all have a wonderful day!! next update Sunday <3


	7. only love can dig you out of this

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two accounts of the Buried, given months apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER SPECIFIC CONTENT WARNINGS: food mention, graphic depictions of the Buried (Entity), claustrophobia, unreality, depersonalisation, disassociation, intimidation, the Hunt (Entity), paranoia, religious imagery, police brutality, reference to weapon (Taser), the Eye (Entity), withdrawal, invasion of privacy, grief/loss, mentions of canonical character deaths (Danny, Sasha, Martin's mother), memory loss, isolation, loneliness, insomnia, anxiety, the Lonely (Entity), bullying, implied/referenced child abuse and neglect, abandonment, debt and financial hardship, references to the experience of being a young carer, self-hatred, reference to chronic illness of parent (Martin's mother), blood, injury (broken nails, bones), compulsion, manipulation.
> 
> oof, this is a bit of a heavy one. let me know if you have any questions about the cws or need a chapter summary if you don't feel comfortable reading one but wanna continue with the fic!! please stay safe and take care of yourselves <3
> 
> Chapter title from "Slow It Down" by the Lumineers.

The safehouse is dark. Tim sleeps for the entire day, stirring only to consume some Pot Noodles in stony silence, and the others join him as the unreliable wall clock finally flickers consistently between the small hours. All except for Jon and Daisy, who sit on the sofa with the stark light of the muted television for company. An old episode of _Countryfile_ is playing, and someone is leaning against a crumbling stone wall on what looks like the Scottish border, gesticulating about the local livestock. There’s a fuzzy herd of Highland cows in the background, too far away to really distinguish from the rolling hillsides. 

“I want to tell you about the Buried,” Daisy murmurs.

Jon doesn’t look away from the television. The Admiral had planted himself in Jon’s lap when he was in a particularly uncomfortable position, one leg half tucked beneath the other, and he hasn’t dared move since, lest he disturb the dozing cat.

“I’ll listen. To whatever you want to tell me. W-whatever you… _can_.”

Daisy takes a deep, shuddering breath. “It was… warm. I didn’t expect it to be warm. The air was heavy, like when it’s humid and the sky is pressing down on you. Not that I could remember the feel of the sky. It did thunder, sometimes, or maybe it was a—landslide? Earthquake? You can hear the rain. But in many ways, it was quiet, even in my own mind. Quiet and so dark. Down there, the Hunt couldn’t reach me. For all the scratching and singing, it was almost peaceful. For a time. Sort of forgot who I was. I couldn’t feel my blood. Usually, I can _feel_ my blood.”

Daisy picks at a loose string on the arm of the sofa. It’s full of these tangles, and Jon wonders if pulling on one will unravel the entire thing. He waits.

“Martin called my name, and I didn’t even realise that it was me. Daisy. _Daisy_. The name felt wrong in my mouth, like it didn’t fit. Martin was still scared of me.” Daisy’s lips twitch, a humourless smirk. “Scared I’d gone to the Hunt, but I just kept saying my own name until he broke through again, told me he was going to get us out. I didn’t believe him, not really. I suppose I always underestimated him.”

Jon tips his head back against the sofa, resting the base of his skull on the precipice of the pillow. There’s a stain on the ceiling that looks like a shoe with its laces unspooled, spiralling away. He buries his hand in the Admiral’s fur, draws comfort from the familiar act. “Didn’t we all?”

“I always got the sense that you trusted him. Even when you didn’t trust anyone.”

“I thought him bringing me tea was a sign of a guilty conscience.”

“You thought he was bringing you tea because he murdered Gertrude?”

“Yes.”

Daisy snorts. “You’re an idiot.”

“Oh, I know.”

“You were… friends, though?”

Jon inhales. He looks down at the Admiral curled in his lap, and thinks: _can I have an easier question_? Because he and Martin had weathered a lot together: the first year at the Institute, rife with worms, and scepticism and scorn on Jon’s part; the paranoia, the way Martin kept reaching out, unafraid of the burn of betrayal; Elias’s carefully-sprung trap; the way the Unknowing came to dominate their lives, an obstacle too big to call a distraction—and yet, in many ways, it felt exactly that.

And yet, Jon isn’t sure he’s ever referred to him and Martin as _friends_ , even though it seems clear now that that’s what they were. What they have been for some time.

“Yes,” Jon whispers, pretending only the Admiral will hear, “I suppose we were.”

“When I interviewed some of the Institute staff, the ones that didn’t work in that basement of yours, they said you would get lunch together,” Daisy says, pretending to be very interested in the television even though the sound is still switched off. “They said you would be talking about something odd whenever they walked by. When I asked them to clarify ‘odd’—I did know what I was dealing with—they’d say you would be throwing iambic pentameter around like an insult, or hypothesising on how obscure historical figures would interpret their own legacies, or rambling about the chemical compounds in cafeteria sandwiches.”

“Sounds about right.”

“One of the barristers at that café over the road, the one with the good scones, said Martin used to go on about shows he was sure you would’ve both watched as kids.”

Jon huffs a gentle laugh. “I was probably still trying to convince him I was thirty-eight.”

“Allegedly, he sang the _Byker Grove_ theme all the way through once while you were in the queue.”

“God, don’t remind me.”

“Said you were very concerned that Martin was too young to be watching _Byker Grove_ in the mid-90s.”

“That’s true.”

“Even though you’re the same age. I’ve seen your birth certificate.”

Jon quirks an eyebrow in her direction. “You were very thorough.”

Daisy’s expression closes, the humour vanishing from her eyes. “It was the Hunt. The Hunt was me. I don’t know if I liked it, but I did—I _needed_ it. I needed…”

“We can—if you want to tell the rest of it later—”

“No. No, I need to tell it now.” Daisy pulls the string all the way out of the sofa’s arm and then stares at it in surprise, as if she doesn’t remember tugging it free. “I was scared, the whole time. It would—close in, crush you, fill your mouth with dirt. But that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was waiting. It would ease back at the last moment, and you’d catch your breath, and be so terrified as you—as you waited for it to close back in. It let you think it would never stop, but it always did. It didn’t want you to die down there.

“You know what I thought, when I woke up there? I thought it was _hell_. And I knew I deserved it. Deserved to never… never see the sky again. Never see…” Daisy swallows, twirling the string between her fingers. “Never see Basira again.”

“But you did,” Jon murmurs, “You did see Basira again.”

“Because of someone I hurt. Maybe not physically, but I spent a lot of time intimidating him. Threatening him.”

“Daisy—”

“One time—you were in America, I think—he was fussing about how you hadn’t called in _two whole days_. Sort of wanted to kill him. It enraged me, that dedication. How could he care about a monster? I didn’t realise I was a monster, too.”

“What did you do?” Jon asks, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“He kept checking his phone every five minutes, probably less, even though it was the early hours wherever you were. Not that you have anything resembling a sleep schedule, but you know.” Daisy shrugs, uncomfortable. “It was useless fussing. So I—I took the cartridge out of my Taser so it wouldn’t shoot all the way and sort of _revved_ it when he reached for the phone. Made him jump every time.”

Anger swells inside of Jon, a tide that catches him by the ankles and drags him under until it’s everywhere, his body flooded with the heat and force of it. The Admiral stirs in his lap, lifting his head for a moment before settling back down, and Jon tries to focus on the stain on the ceiling as his nerves settle. He _needs_ the full story, and he’s not going to get it if he unleashes the full brunt of his fury. He says nothing, hating himself for it in the sharp echo of his own silence.

“Think that was the same week Melanie made him cry for the first time. He was… not having a good time.” He can feel Daisy looking at him.

“What do you want me to say?” Jon grinds out.

“Nothing. There’s nothing I can say, anyone can say, to make it better. I just—I don’t get why he came after me.”

“He’s claustrophobic,” Jon whispers. His throat closes around the words, a very human response to the fear of someone dear to him, and it takes him by surprise, the way he _doesn’t_ want to feed from it, examine it, know all of its secrets. He is simply remembering the hurt of another, and hurting too.

“I know. We talked a little, to keep each other—heh, _grounded_. He said he couldn’t really feel the Eye down there, either. Said he felt more like himself than he had in months.”

“Oh.”

“He missed you. I think he’s… trying to save you. Trying to save all of us. He always did want us to be a team.”

Jon glares at the corkboard, still standing near the camping table. They’ve made no more progress on their plan. “Some team we make.”

“Yeah, I mean, I was gonna kill you. You know that, right?”

“I mean, I definitely got that impression when you dragged me into the woods for an execution.”

“No.” She almost laughs. “No, after the mission in Yarmouth. I was planning to kill you.”

“I… I did not know that.”

“You were in my dreams. Of the Coffin, before it even happened.”

“Yes, I—I did make an appearance in a few dreams.”

“I didn’t think much of it, not until you changed shirts. It didn’t fit you. Not your style. Then you came back from the States and guess what you were wearing? That’s when I realised you weren’t human. I thought you needed to die, as soon as it was safe. Never mind Elias and his _insurance_.”

Jon meets her eyes in the too-bright light of the television. It casts strange shadows across Daisy’s face, lights her eyes in almost unnatural greens and blues. “And now?”

Her teeth seem to flash when she speaks. There’s a curling, gnawing hunger to her words, as if she almost misses the certainty of wanting to kill him, of believing it was right. “Well, you’re not a monster anymore, are you?”

Jon stills feels monstrous, sometimes. “I don’t… I don’t know about that.”

“I’m not going to kill you. I’m… I’ve given up the Hunt. In the Coffin, I made a decision. I didn’t want to be a sadistic predator again. I also didn’t want to be some _pathetic_ wounded prey, but I… I keep telling myself it’s better this way.”

“How did you…” Jon takes a steadying breath. “How did you get _out_? You never said.”

“Martin took a statement from some old man. Steven? Simmons?”

Jon feels his frown deepen. “Simon? Simon Fairchild?”

“Yeah, that was it.”

“Christ, that’s… that’s concerning.”

“Not really sure how he got the idea from a Vast-aligned OAP, but he said something about a rollercoaster.”

“Right.”

“Gave him the idea to have an anchor, something to draw him out. He said he felt nothing about this anchor before he descended into the Coffin, but the longer he was down there, the further from the Eye he was, the more it meant to him. He was certain it would happen that way. I thought it was a risk, but…” Daisy twists the string of fabric around her finger, pulling it tighter and tighter until the tip turns white. “Grabbed my hand after—I don’t even know how long it’d been. He pulled us out. It hurt. It really hurt, and we were covered in dirt, but we were back in your office. His office now, I guess.

“And there was a case next to the Coffin, one of the recorded statements. Didn’t think much of it. I remembered the number, though: 0082107. He didn’t say much after that, just handed me over to Melanie with a Bag for Life full of tapes. But that statement, the one he’d placed near the Coffin, was in there. When we opened it up properly, I realised why he’d chosen it as the anchor.”

Jon is almost afraid to ask. But beneath the fear, an old, selfish part of him longs for the weight of the Beholding to put behind the question. “What was it?”

“Tim’s pretty possessive over it. Didn’t let anyone else touch it after we realised what it was. You’re gonna have to ask him.” Jon finds himself moving to stand, and Daisy grips his sleeve, again with a surprising strength considering her withdrawal. “ _Not_ now.”

“I need to know,” Jon mutters.

“Nope. You’ll know when Tim wants to share, and right now—”

Jon sighs. “Fine.”

“Why don’t I believe you?”

“Daisy.”

“Alright.” Daisy releases his sleeve. “I’m on your side, you know. I… I owe Martin. So I’ll stick around until this is through.”

“And after that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Hard to imagine an after, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Daisy exhales a small laugh. “Yeah, it is.”

Jon can still feel Daisy watching him.

“If it was Basira, I—”

“It’s not the same,” Jon interrupts.

“Isn’t it?”

“It’s _not_.”

“I see you,” Daisy whispers, “I see how much you want him back.”

Jon says nothing, focuses on the silence that surrounds them, interrupted only by the Admiral’s soft snoring and the slight echo of a growl in the way Daisy breathes as she watches him, tries to tease out an admission, a reason. But Jon won’t give it to her. He doesn’t yet know himself what the answer is.

Daisy goes to bed. Jon doesn’t sleep.

It’s impossible to tell what time it is when the temptation implodes in his chest, and he’s rising from the sofa without thinking about where he’s going. The Admiral looks at him unhappily as Jon sets him on the sofa pillow, but Jon’s focus is elsewhere.

He tiptoes across the warehouse, to the end of Tim’s mattress, where there’s an old Nike shoebox. At first, Jon thought it was simply full of cat toys, since he watched Tim take out a plush rod with a stuffed mouse hanging from the end and tease the Admiral with it during his first night here. But there is something more to it. There _has_ to be something more to it, because Tim guards this shoebox, doesn’t let Georgie near it when it’s her turn to keep the Admiral occupied.

Jon kneels in front of the box. His hands shake as he lifts the cardboard lid. Inside, the cat toy is there, but it’s what’s underneath that makes Jon’s breath catch.

The box is filled with memories. A lock of baby hair tied with blue ribbon, embroidered with the name Daniel, and a matching pair of tiny shoes. A family on the beach alongside their Labrador Retriever, who looks like she’s been swimming in the sea with a young Tim, sitting on a picnic blanket and holding a chubby baby haphazardly. His mother is correcting his baby-holding technique _and_ smiling for the photo, while his father seems to be trying to fit his arm around all three of them, shooting a large, carefree grin not unlike Tim’s own at the camera. A Blue Peter badge, a school certificate for Excellence in Drama, a postcard from Niagara Falls, Interrailing tickets and an out-of-date EHIC card held together with a green paperclip. A transparent CD case with a disc inside that reads _The Very Serious Sasha James Mixtape_ in handwriting Jon doesn’t recognise.

Sasha’s handwriting, Jon realises, and falls back onto his ankles when he notices the edge of a polaroid sticking out from beneath a leather-bound notebook with 2003-2004 printed on the front in gold foil. The same handwriting notes the date of the photo in pink Sharpie, and Jon’s hand shakes as he draws the polaroid out so he can see it in its entirety.

It’s from his birthday. The surprise party, the cake and wine before midday, his grumpy acceptance of the whole spectacle. He’s sitting at his desk, trying to smile at the camera. A paper plate is balanced on a collection of books he’d been using to research a statement, and he really hopes he didn’t eat the cake in his office. Because he didn’t want to be alone, yes, but also because those books were very old. He can’t remember what he did. Tim is standing directly behind Jon, and he has his arms thrown around Martin, who looks uncomfortable but not unhappy, and—

And Sasha. The real Sasha.

Sasha James is short, much shorter than he remembers, but… those memories were all fabrications, a twisting of their reality to slot something that didn’t quite fit into their lives. Still, Jon thinks—or feels, because it is almost beyond description—he can remember Tim gently teasing their Sasha when she asked him to get something down from the top shelves of the Archives or the cupboard in the breakroom where they kept the “emergency Oreos”. She fits perfectly next to Tim, her head tipped slightly towards her shoulder as she grins at the camera.

In the polaroid, her hair is dark brown, long and corkscrew curly, but she’s pulled half of it into a ponytail with an orange velvet scrunchie. He remembers this, too, hazy and muddled like a fading dream: bright dresses and blouses, vivid lipstick in reds and purples and oranges, hanging earrings shaped like fruit, always professional but never boring. A sunny laugh. A gentle patience for all three of them, who were much slower than her when it came to computers and, in all honesty, everything else. Sharp wit, teasing that never hurt, a friendliness that drew even Jon in from the very start. He remembers trust. He remembers confidence. He remembers a smile like the one in the photo, thrown his way even on his worst days.

Jon’s face is wet. He lifts a hand to his left cheek, and feels tears against his fingertips.

“I’m so sorry, Sasha,” he whispers, his voice twisted with grief. And then he knows, and the pain inside of him opens into something new and cruel. _This_ was Martin’s anchor. This was what he used to pull himself from the Buried. “Oh, _Martin_.”

* * *

Martin doesn’t remember he’s claustrophobic until he’s descended the stairs into the Buried. Since the Unknowing, it’s like his terror has been taken away from him piece by piece—a devil takes the hindmost from the straggling procession of doubts and insecurities and fears that kept him awake at night, tainted his days, made him who he was. He is closer to empty than he’s ever been before.

That changes in the Buried. He feels the Coffin close behind him. And all the things he left behind crowd him, until he loses himself.

He used to suspect the Buried would call to him, in some way; he remembers this now. He’s claustrophobic, an old fear from when he was trapped by a bully in a changing cubicle during a free school trip to the local swimming pool, but there’s more to it than that. He remembers the claustrophobia of his childhood home, the way he could never be outside of his parents’ disapproval, his father’s dissatisfaction and resentment closing in until he walked out of the door, the piling up of debts and bills as Martin tried to support his mother alone, the feeling of his options narrowing and narrowing until he had to drop out of school, the suffocating sense of being out of place at the Institute. He felt that fear crushing him after he moved to the Archives, never knowing it would become a different sort of trap to the one that wouldn’t let him sleep.

He knows himself here. Knows himself down to his core, and he hates it.

There are cycles here, without pattern or reason or prediction: the Choke eases into something almost resembling relief before closing in again. Along with it, he cycles through grief for Jon, for Tim, for Sasha, who are lost to him. For Melanie, how he knows the feeling of being trapped _haunts_ her. For Basira and for Daisy, who has been here for far longer than him. 

For his mother. How he could never ease the pain that seemed always to crowd her, to counter the pressure of his own existence by being good and helpful and present. He tried, he tried _so_ hard, but it was never enough. And now she was gone, entombed just like him, although he hopes her commitment to the earth is more peaceful than his.

He’s twisted by paranoia and grief and panic. He finds himself crawling through the tunnels of the Buried, sobbing, crying, his throat scratching and dry from heat and dehydration. There’s dirt beneath his nails, between the creases of his palms, in his eyelashes, his hair. As he digs himself deeper with panic and delusion, he loses a nail; he feels a wall of mud close around his foot like a rabbit trap and break two of his toes. His nose starts to bleed from the pressure.

He doesn’t know when he remembers the polaroid. He’d been testing himself for weeks, letting himself look at it only to know and Know he feels nothing. But there is still a part of him that’s aware it _should_ mean something. It’s logic, he tells himself, a remembered sentiment before he dedicated himself to the Lonely. That’s why he leaves it on top of the Coffin.

It saves him, though. Sentiment—or at least familiarity—leads him to Daisy. She’s lost herself, too. His fear of the Hunt is unfounded here. They talk, to keep each other sane as the walls press in and out. Martin says things he cannot afford to think about, almost unravels, tells Daisy everything. Nearly confesses at the altar of dirt and depth, closeness and choking that surrounds them. He wants to cry. He wants Jon to come down after them, rescue them both.

The polaroid. He remembers the polaroid, again and again. Breaks his heart, cuts his sanity on it every time. But when he takes Daisy’s hand, he Knows the way out.

The Eye snaps around him again the moment he’s out, the curling fog of the Lonely not far behind. He shuts himself off to Daisy. He lets her sit in his chair, shaking, scared, and does not answer her questions as he finds the Bag for Life underneath the floorboard. It’s an awful plastic monstrosity, from when _Frozen_ first came out, but it’s filled with the statements the others are going to need to survive this.

Melanie arrives, just as he expects. They’re on the Institute’s steps, waiting.

Melanie has a statement, a new hurt. Martin _does not_ Look at her. He hands over the bag, lets Melanie lift Daisy from the steps and take her weight.

“Martin, I—I want you to know that I’m…” Melanie stops. She stares at him, from the bottom step. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“Go home, Melanie,” Martin murmurs, but the static of compulsion is loud between his ears, “No more questions. Go straight back. Stay safe.”

Melanie blinks. Turns around. Takes Daisy away.

Martin’s still standing on the steps when Peter appears.

“Is that the last of them?” Peter asks, full of false sympathy. “No more… _connections_ left to distract you?”

“Yes,” Martin replies, “I have no one.”

“And how does that make you feel?”

“Nothing.” Martin nearly laughs. “Nothing at all.”

“ _Excellent_. I’m so proud of you.”

“I really don’t care.”

“ _Perfect_.”

And so Martin descends into another grave he’s not sure he can escape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in jon's defence i do agree that martin was too young to be watching byker grove in the early 90s. then again so was jon, if he would ever admit to having watched it in the first place. he would definitely NEVER admit that the theme tune is kinda catchy... ;)))
> 
> pls leave comments and kudos if you enjoyed!!!! and have a great day!!! next update Tuesday <3


	8. while you were sleeping, i took over your town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another day in the Archives, another visit from an Avatar who may or may not want to help save the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER SPECIFIC CONTENT WARNINGS: violence, grief/loss, memory loss/alteration, disassociation, swearing, weapons mention, canonical character deaths (Danny, Sasha), isolation, loneliness, the Stranger (Entity), self-hatred, suicidal ideation, referenced paranoia, the Lonely (Entity), insomnia, reference to experiences of racism and xenophobia, manipulation, the Web (Entity), spiders, arachnophobia, free will, abandonment, body horror. 
> 
> let me know if you have any questions about specific cws!!! stay safe <3
> 
> Chapter title from "What Went Down" by Foals.

The punch takes him by surprise.

Jon is sitting at the camping table, not sure how he got there, lost in grief, in memories that won’t stay and memories that won’t go. It’s hazy. He remembers wading into the water once, at the beach in Bournemouth, so early in the morning there was no one else around. The waves lapped at his legs, until he swayed with them, until all he could focus on was the expanse that lay before him and seemed to sing. This moment, this feeling, is not dissimilar.

And then there’s a surge of pain against his face, a knuckle jutting into the hollow between his eye and his cheekbone. It sends him sprawling, off the chair and onto the scratching carpet, taking the table with him. The table and—

The polaroid. He’d forgotten to put the polaroid back.

“You _bastard_!” Tim snarls.

The others are startled from sleep by the clatter of the table. Basira has reached for a gun, Daisy for a knife. Georgie looks dazed as she bolts up from the mattress, and Melanie is clinging to her arm while the Admiral slinks into the empty bathroom as if bored by the confrontation.

Basira sighs in annoyance, lowering the gun. “Tim, why—?”

“Shut up! All of you, _shut up_!” Tim yells. He looms over Jon, sprawled on the floor with a hand against his thundering eye. “You had _no right_.”

“Tim, I—I know. I know.” Jon winces. His jaw _and_ his eye hurt, somehow, a collaborative, throbbing pain. “I shouldn’t—I didn’t—I’m sorry. I’m _so sorry_. I’m sorry.”

“No, you don’t know. You _don’t_. Because I. Lost. _Everything_. That box is all I have left of my _family_. The last time I heard my mother’s voice was over the phone when I called to say that Danny had—that Danny had—” Tim clutches his hair, wild from sleep. “I was all alone when I came to the Institute. I just wanted my life back. I wanted to understand _why_. And Sasha, she—she was so _kind_. Sometimes I wish I could forget just how kind. Didn’t have to smile all the time around her. Didn’t have to worry about being funny and carefree. She was too good for me. She deserved more. But I know she loved me. Didn’t matter how or why or in what way. She just… she did, and I knew. I always knew, even when things were difficult.”

Jon leans against the back of the sofa, flinching away from Tim’s grief. “Tim—”

“I failed both of them. I lost both of them to the _same monster_. I spent all of that time researching the Stranger, and it took her, too. And I still don’t understand _why_. I have less answers than I did at the start, and I can’t—I can’t stop asking myself _why_.”

“It’s my fault,” Jon murmurs, “I know it is, Tim, I—I’m so sor—”

“It’s your fault you’re so fucking hungry for knowledge, even now. It’s your fault you don’t know when to _stop digging_. You shouldn’t have gone through my things.” Tim’s anger seems to waver, fade into something with less fire, and he stumbles, drops into the seat where Jon had been sitting, somehow still standing. “But I was the one who got complacent. Stopped looking for the Circus. I loved Sasha. Christ, I loved _you._ And Martin, and—and it was enough for a while. Felt like I was getting my life back. So I just… let the _one thing_ that had saved me from my grief, let that focus, that question, drift to the back of my mind. I wanted to, I think. I wanted to stop asking why. And look where it got me.”

When Jon looks up, he’s startled to see that Tim is crying.

“I don’t know whose fault it is. I don’t know anything anymore,” Tim sobs, “I just know that I—that I gave up. And I wanted to punish myself for it. I wanted to punish everyone, but especially _you_. Because I think maybe we—maybe I’m wrong, when I say you don’t understand. I think you do. I think you probably understand better than anyone. And I _hate that_. I hate looking at you and being _reminded_ of who I am, of what I’ve done.”

“Tim,” Jon says, “Tim, please, I—”

Tim buries his face in his hands. “ _God_ , why is it so hard to keep going? I didn’t think I’d ever have to process any of this.”

“Tim, listen to me.” Jon moves to kneel in front of Tim. “I don’t know what you’ve been through. But I do understand what it’s like to have your life upended just when you think you might…” Jon sighs, somewhere between a broken laugh and a sob to match Tim’s. “Just when you think you might be doing something good, something worthwhile. And I know what it’s like to live through something impossible, to drop off the edge of the map you’ve made for yourself and think: what the _fuck_ do I do next?”

Slowly, Tim raises his face from his hands. He stares at Jon, his eyes red-rimmed and purpling with exhaustion. “Did you just say fuck?”

Jon smiles. “Must be serious.”

“Yeah,” Tim mumbles, “Must be.”

“Listen, I… I shouldn’t have opened the box. I’m sorry.”

“That was a dick move, but I don’t—I don’t have a monopoly on Sasha’s memory.”

“You loved her.”

“Yeah. I really loved her. Love her. Haven’t stopped, not really.”

“I understand why you want to protect her memory. Perhaps especially from me.” Jon takes a deep, shuddering breath. “But I—I realised before the Unknowing that the cost of distrust is… _far_ too high. You’re not alone anymore, Tim, not if you don’t want to be. Neither am I.”

“Don’t do that again,” Tim snaps through his tears.

“I won’t. I _swear_.”

“Okay. Okay, I—I think I actually believe you.”

The next thing Jon knows, Tim is hugging him, a tight, desperate hug. Jon freezes, not sure how to react. Slowly, afraid to disturb the moment, he lifts his arms around Tim’s shaking body and holds him as he cries.

“I, uh,” Georgie says to Basira and Daisy, “I think you can put the weapons away now.”

“False alarm.” Melanie flops back onto the bed and drags the duvet over her head with a growl. “Just men trying to process their emotions.”

* * *

Martin is losing time.

It seemed to take an eternity to wash all of the dirt from beneath his remaining nails, but after that, there are long stretches of nothingness. He reads statements. He meets with Peter and Elias. He deflects Rosie’s questions. He sleeps, sometimes, but it’s never restful. He’s always walking through someone else’s terror, stark as if it belongs to him, even as the Lonely numbs it like a knife worn down by use.

There’s an obnoxious clicking from a clock somewhere nearby. He can only hear it because the rest of the Institute has gone home for the night. It reminds him he should be sleeping, but something is keeping him awake, a tickle at the back of his mind that he can’t quite tuck away.

He Knows when someone else steps into the Archives. Their consciousness is almost familiar, like a background noise that becomes just loud enough that you notice it again—like the clock keeping Martin awake. But there is something protected about it, too. It’s shrouded in something strong and twisted. Web-like.

Annabelle Cane lets herself into his office.

“I hope you don’t mind that I let myself in.” She has carried a chair inside, so quietly and effortlessly that Martin doesn’t notice until she plants it in front of his desk. She pauses, her hand curled around the back. “Can I call you Martin?”

“What else would you call me?” Martin doesn’t mean to snap, but _god_ , he’s—this is too unexpected, an outlier in his carefully-plotted progress.

“I know all your names: the name you were born with, the name you chose. You didn’t like your grandfather’s name the way it was? I suppose an English tongue might have tripped over Marcin, and you didn’t want to stand out. Isn’t it unfair that we’re always the ones expected to assimilate? I can relate.” Annabelle rounds the chair, sits down. She smiles at him from the other side of the desk. “Your mother used to call you little worm. Do you remember? It doesn’t quite translate, but it _is_ a term of endearment. Isn’t it?”

Martin says nothing.

“I think you do remember.” Annabelle shrugs. She’s wearing an oversized cardigan made of bright blue wool, with cream buttons and a strand of lavender embroidered onto the breast pocket. “But that’s not why I’m here, Martin. I’m going to call you Martin.”

“That’s fine,” Martin replies, terse, “I’m more interested in why you’re here than my own name.”

“I’m here to give a statement. Isn’t that what you do?”

“Okay. And what is your statement regarding?”

“Let’s say… free will.”

“Fine. Statement of Annabelle Cane on the nature of free will. Taken direct from subject by the Archivist, December—”

The date arrives in Martin’s mind, unsolicited, followed by a small jewel of knowledge that already belonged to him: it’s Jon’s birthday. He hasn’t been keeping track of the days. He wishes he had, if only not to be taken surprise by it at this moment, when he’s vulnerable, when Annabelle is watching him with knowing eyes.

“Is everything alright, Martin?”

“Fine.” Martin clears his throat. “Let’s try this again. Statement of Annabelle Cane on the nature of free will. Take direct from subject by the Archivist, December 23rd 2017.”

Annabelle leans back in her chair. Crosses one leg over the other. Taps her fingers against the arm of the chair to the pattern of the clock, which Martin had forgotten in favour of her arrival. “Free will is a funny old thing, isn’t it? Such a strange concept, woven from a thousand different ignorances and experiences, a faculty we only ever truly ascribe to ourselves and, I suppose, to our gods.

“With any other animal, we talk about instinct, we talk about training; perhaps, if we spent enough time with them, we talk about personality. But we never talk about _choice_. We never look at a dog chasing wildly after a thrown ball and think, ‘what an odd decision that dog has made.’

“We talk about the workings of its mind, and its instincts. If it doesn’t chase the ball, we wonder why: is it sick? Is it tired? Perhaps something in the nature of this particular breed, this particular dog, makes it prone to ignoring a game of fetch. The idea of a dog simply _choosing_ not to chase feels deeply unnatural. Is it even capable of legitimately making a decision? Some would say no.

“Of course, people are very different from dogs. Our brains are larger. More complex. So many more little factors and wrinkles to push and pull us. But does any of that actually constitute free will? Free of what? We all have forces that drive us, circumstances that direct us, and even if we choose to ignore these and act against all logic, just to prove we _can_ —is that not simply allowing the existential terror of our own powerlessness to control us instead?

“Scans show decisions are made by your brain long before your conscious mind even has a chance to register them. Most of one’s life is simply spent looking back and convincing yourself that you chose deliberately to act like you did.”

Annabelle pauses. She has him trapped, by her words, by his dependency on the terror contained in each statement sent his way. “I could tell you how I came to be the person I am. I’m sure you’ve heard some of it, but not the full story. There are many strands to a single web. But no, I think this story must be about you. What led Martin Blackwood to the Magnus Institute? What led Martin Blackwood to become the Archivist?”

Martin finds he can’t move, can’t speak. He _needs_ her to continue.

“I know that look. You’re concerned about your free will. You are asking whether you’ve ever managed to fully exercise it. And you, more than most, have had your decisions forced by factors we might consider outside of your control. You didn’t make your father leave, but you were the one who had to step into his absence. You didn’t _want_ to leave school, but your mother needed you. And lying on your CV, well, that was just a means to an end, wasn’t it?

“I don’t know every move the Mother of Puppets makes. Perhaps she led you to the Magnus Institute in the first place. Perhaps not. The Mother does always keep a close eye—or _eyes_ —on who enters employment with the Institute. It takes a certain cunning, a pulling of the strings, whether calculated or the product of desperation, to lie so boldly as you. You were interesting to the Mother. I suspect you had never been interesting to anyone in your life before that moment.

“Is that a cruel observation? It is entirely possible I am trying to entice you with the allure of something so novel as interest, as investment. Nonetheless, the Mother picked you from the pile, placed a spider atop your CV so that Elias would recognise her seal of approval when he read it. He knew the information it contained was false, of course; you knew he knew it was false, as soon as you stepped into the interview. But you got the job! How wonderful for you.

“Did you ever question this turn of—what shall we call it? Fate? Luck? I’m sure you must have done. Where is the free will in this situation? Was it free will every time you made the decision to stay, every time you set your alarm and got out of bed in the morning and turned up for work perfectly on time? Do you see the problem, Martin? Free will is so very hard to locate. If you choose to believe in free will, then yes: you could say all you have done has been of your own free will. They have all been your choices.

“That’s not to say we haven’t been watching. We sent spiders; you would set each of them patiently outside, never looking too close. You knew what happened to poor Carlos Vittery wasn’t _right_ , but where did that feeling come from? Was it only the desire to prove yourself that led you back to his flat, or was it something else?

“You see, Martin, you have always had potential. Part of your potential lies in your ability to be underestimated. And yet, for all that you pull strings and surprise others, the pleasure you take in the process is always tainted with guilt. You want to please _without_ a mask, even though you are so terribly afraid of being _seen_. A walking contradiction. That doesn’t lend itself well to long-term success. But here you are: the Archivist. A position no one expected you to fill.

“Well, perhaps not _no one_. Was it the Mother of Puppets who inched you into the role? It’s true the Mother has marked the previous Archivist deeply, but there has always been something about _you_ , Martin. The Archivist in waiting. Even Elias saw it eventually, for all of his doubts. Perhaps all this time, he knew just as well as the Mother that the role called to you, too, in its own way.

“Is it what you hoped it would be? You are very alone in here. The air is cold and heavy with the Lonely. You think that the Lonely is your calling, has always been your calling, but that’s not quite true. The Web cannot claim that privilege, either. Here again is the problem with the idea of free will: does an entity chose _you_ , or do you choose _it_? I suspect a little of both. You have been marked for a long time by forces you don’t yet understand, but you are reaching for it. Stretching your mind towards the truth.

“What are you waiting for now? Something is coming, but you cannot follow every strand of the web at once. I know it’s hard to be both the manipulated and the manipulator. You are doing very well. Better than expected, even. But there is something missing. You can feel its absence as you get closer and closer to the core of this place and its purpose.”

Annabelle stops again. She leans forward, and Martin catches the first glimpse of her hair beneath her faded denim baseball cap. It’s not her hair, though, that keeps his attention. The side of her skull is missing, and in its place is an intricate web crawling with spiders. “ _That_ is why I am here. The Mother would like to strike a deal with you, Martin. We can give you some of the answers you seek.”

Martin takes a deep breath. His voice returns. “At what cost?”

A spider extracts itself from the cavern of Annabelle’s half-collapsed skull. It dances over the curl of her ear, down the side of her throat, over her shoulder and along the knitted arm of her cardigan. “I will send you where you need to go to understand your role in this grand scheme, _if_ you allow one of my spiders to bite you.”

“ _Bite_ me?” Martin squeaks, and he almost sounds like his old self.

Annabelle turns her hand upwards. The spider crawls over her wrist and settles atop one of the wrinkles that criss-crosses her palm. “It won’t hurt… much.”

“And what does the bite mean? What does it _do_?”

Annabelle’s lips twist. He doesn’t know if he can call it a smile. “It’s a _mark_ of our affection. It might scar a little, I suppose. Beyond that… well, some people believe that if all the millions upon millions of factors that weigh upon our choices were fully and completely known, then all could be foreseen and predetermined. So perhaps I _do_ know what the bite will do to you. Then again, perhaps I don’t.”

“Prove to me that the information you’ll give me in return is worth it,” Martin says.

“I can tell you _why_ Elias killed Gertrude Robinson. I can show you what it is he wants from you. What it is he intends to _do_ with your power.”

Martin examines her across the desk. She looks back plainly, unperturbed by his staring, his analysing. He thinks about what she said earlier, how the brain makes a decision before the person becomes conscious of it.

He thinks his decision was made long before he extends his hand across the desk.

Annabelle smiles again, properly, and takes his hand. The spider crawls from her knuckles to Martin’s, and as they shake on this deal, it makes its way to the inside of his wrist.

As he pulls away from Annabelle, Martin feels a sharp jab of pain against the veins of his wrist, like someone has pinched the skin there between their fingernails. He tries not to flinch as he keeps his eyes on Annabelle.

“Where to start?” Annabelle muses. She clicks her fingers, seeming to settle on something, and her grin sparkles like a spider’s web covered in dew and sunlight as she speaks. “Tell me, Martin. Have you ever heard of Ny-Ålesund?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the TMA timeline is truly the work of the spiral. pls imagine, for the sake of this story, that:  
> \- Jon has a winter birthday as they celebrated in the Archives and going out around Christmas is a nightmare in London (unless they just didn't want a repeat of the emulsifier incident). so yes, i made him a Capricorn.  
> \- the Archives crew have been working there since Gertrude's disappearance (March 2015), went out for Martin's birthday sometime over the subsequent summer, and their roles became formalised after Gertrude had been missing for long enough in around December 2015/January 2016. the "rough start" Jon refers to in the recording from 161 is the fact that everything is a mess even after their first sweep of trying to get everything organised and they've already realised some of the statements don't record on laptops even after multiple attempts  
> \- so while i'm considering the fact that Elias transferred Martin to the Archives, as mentioned in the live show, as canon, the timeline in this fic doesn't have Jon literally meeting Martin and reading the Anglerfisher statement on his first day (rest assured the dog incident still happened tho)  
> \- does that make sense???? i do not know. Helen, do you know???
> 
> ANYHOW, i love Annabelle. weirdly, listening to tma has made me LESS afraid of spiders??? i'm chill with them hanging out in my room now??? probably a risky statement to make tbh :/
> 
> apologies for these ramblings and thank you for reading!!!! have a great few days. next update is Friday <3


	9. of distant dark places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do Jon and Tim finally have a plan? Meanwhile, Martin goes north.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER SPECIFIC CONTENT WARNINGS: addiction, withdrawal, injury, food mention, police brutality, swearing, discussions of invasions of privacy and stalking, referenced paranoia, the Stranger (Entity), guns, grief/loss, disassociation, isolation, unreality, the Spiral (Entity), compulsion, intimidation, nausea, the Dark (Entity), scotophobia, religion, the Eye (Entity), fainting.
> 
> Chapter title from "Set The Fire To The Third Bar" by Snow Patrol and Martha Wainwright.

Jon isn’t sure if it’s because Tim is feeling guilty for the black eye, but after an awkward back-and-forth, they decide to share the mattress and its headache of a blanket. If he is honest with himself—and he is trying to be, these days—Jon is too dizzy to argue with Tim, who seems to waning from withdrawal as the afternoon drags on. It’s barely five when the two of them end up on the middle mattress, a fort of pillows built by Tim between them, with Jon nearly dropping the bag of frozen peas he’s holding against his swollen-shut eye every five minutes as he barely snaps himself out of falling asleep.

After another unproductive planning session, Basira has disappeared through one of Helen’s yellow doors to collect statements from the Institute. Georgie is on a trip to the local Aldi with a shopping list mostly consisting of Tim’s weird cravings, even though Jon is sure from his own experience that food must taste bland at best and, at worst, like ashes, rough and choking against his tongue and throat.

That leaves four of them at the safehouse. In the bathroom, Melanie is having another bath while the Admiral snoozes on a blanket on top of the toilet and an old episode of _What the Ghost?_ plays from her phone. On the sofa, Daisy is lying with her eyes closed and a large pair of noise-cancelling headphones, appearing to be asleep. The jolly theme of _The Archers_ blasting from the headphone speakers a few minutes ago, however, tells a different story.

“Are you awake?” Tim asks.

“No,” Jon replies.

Tim sighs, loudly, and Jon can hear the audible roll of his eyes in its tone. He props his arms on the pillow fort between them and lifts his head over. “I know you’re awake, Jon. Mainly because I heard you humming along to _The Archers_.”

“I was raised by my grandmother.”

“I’ll tell Daisy that was your defence. I’m sure she’ll be thrilled.”

Jon lets the bag of peas fall limply against his shoulder. “What do you want, Tim?”

“I want to talk about the plan,” Tim says, “Or lack thereof.”

“Right.”

“We’re wasting time here.”

“I agree.”

“What?”

“I said, I agree.”

“No, I heard you the first time.” Tim smirks. “Just not used to you saying things like that.”

“Get to the point.”

“Have you ever watched those detective shows? The ones with the _really_ dramatic crimes that seem to happen _all the time_ and you’re like, holy shit, is this driving down the house prices in the area?”

Jon raises the frozen peas back to his eye, although he’s thinks the reason his head has started to throb again is Tim’s convoluted line of questioning. “Was that your point?”

“No. My point is, the part where they stick a load of pictures and notes on a corkboard and connect them with red string tends to be pretty short. More of a quick montage rather than a whole episode’s worth of drama.”

“I’m not sure I trust police dramas,” Jon says, “Or the police, for that matter.”

“Yep, those shows present valorised representations of the police, inaccurate both in terms of the volume and severity of the crimes they deal with, and also as an institution that is far too corrupted by—or, in fact, inseparable from—racism, fascism, sexism—”

“Tim.”

“I’m not saying we should go full buddy cop on this thing. Or CSI Spooky. Not that it doesn’t sound kinda fun.” Tim shoots Jon a hopeful look, which he takes great pains not to return. “Okay, fine. What I’m trying to say is, I know they only solve the crimes for plot coherency and also to maintain the propaganda—right, staying on track. They do, however, solve the crimes by—how do I put this?—actually leaving the fucking house. Or in our case, safehouse.”

“Where do you suggest we go?”

Tim blinks. “Sorry, still not used to you agreeing with me.”

“ _Tim_.”

“Okay, okay.” Tim rests his chin on his hands, his confidence waning for a moment as he looks at Jon. “I think we need to go to Martin’s flat.”

Jon frowns at the ceiling. “That’s an invasion of his privacy.”

“For the greater good.”

“I’m sure that’s what your detectives tell themselves, too.”

“They’re not _my_ —and that’s not— _fine_. Yes, it’s an invasion of his privacy. But let’s not forget that _you_ stalked _me_! I’m not accepting criticism from you at this time.”

“That was _different_.”

“How?”

“I thought you might be a murder suspect.”

“Oh, come _on_.”

“I think my paranoia was justified.”

“So the actions that resulted from your paranoia were justified also? Great, so if you could just tap into that stalker instinct again, we—”

“I’m not going to _stalk_ Martin.”

“What if there’s something at Martin’s flat that gives us a clue about what he’s doing? Or _why_ he’s doing it?” Tim presses, his face suddenly serious. “You were suspicious of me and Martin and—and everyone else because something wasn’t right. You knew there was—you knew we were all acting a bit out of character. Doesn’t that apply here, too?”

“Do you think Martin’s been replaced by the Stranger?”

“God, no. _No_. Shit, I hope not. I didn’t think of that.”

“Elias would know. I doubt he would allow the Stranger to pose as the Head Archivist for so long.”

“Very true. Christ, don’t scare me like that.”

“Sorry.”

“I just…” Tim sighs, rests his chin atop his hands atop the pillow wall. “He’s always been so private and I get it. From what I know, he hasn’t exactly had it easy. I don’t _want_ to invade his privacy.”

Jon sighs. “But?”

“But he’s _missing_. Maybe not literally, but he’s—every day, I feel like we’re getting closer to losing him, and I’d do anything to stop that happening. Even if he hates us for it.”

Jon turns Tim’s words over in his mind, still staring at the ceiling. The frozen peas have made his cheek numb with cold. He’s not sure he can stand the thought of Martin hating him. But it seems like a less immediate concern, buried beneath the fear that Martin has stopped thinking of him at all. The fear that Martin is beyond their reach and no amount of searching will bring him back.

Jon takes a deep breath. “How do you suggest we go about visiting Martin’s flat?”

“Heh. Visiting. You make it sound so nice.” Tim tips his head in thought. “But you’re right. The others aren’t just going to let us walk there and have a little poke around without a fight.”

“Perhaps it doesn’t need to be a fight.”

“Sounds fake, but go on.”

“We can… leave in the night. While they’re sleeping.”

“Simple as that?”

“Yes.”

“What if one of them wakes up? Basira has a gun.”

“You’re not usually the sensible one.”

“Rude,” Tim snaps, “And I’m just exploring the possibilities. Maybe we should… I don’t know, put something in their food?”

“No.”

“Jon—”

“Absolutely not. That’s not an option.”

“So all we’ve got is, what? Sneak out in the night and hope for the best?”

“Yes?”

“Great.”

“I’m open to other options.”

“No,” Tim sighs, “I think that’s all we’ve got.”

“When do we leave?”

“Tomorrow night?”

Jon nods against the pillow. “How will you manage?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Tim, you can hardly—”

“I’ll be _fine_ , okay? I’ll tap into my inner strength and run circles around you, old man.”

“We’re the same age.”

“That’s not what you told us on your birthday.”

Jon tries to smile, even though it hurts—his bruised eye, and a wound much deeper. “I wanted you all to think I wasn’t completely unqualified.”

“You were, but we liked you anyway.”

“I appreciate it.”

“Me and Sasha did think about killing you and framing it on Martin, though.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Okay, it was mostly me.”

“Do you…” Jon takes a deep breath. He puts the frozen peas on the floor beside the mattress and turns fully towards Tim’s side of the bed. “Do you want to talk about it? I know I’m not exactly the most—well, if you _do_ want to talk, I’ll listen.”

“Not… not right now.” Tim returns his shaky smile. “But maybe one day?”

Jon feels his smile manifest into something solid and real. “Maybe one day.”

* * *

Martin might have grown immune to the cold, but he hasn’t lost all of his logic. So when Rosie walks into his office that afternoon, he’s trying to zip up the Arctic-proof, ankle-length puffer jacket he ordered online using Institute funds. He’s already wearing the warmest, fluffiest set of hat and gloves he could find in the Institute’s lost and found box, the latter of which isn’t helping his attempt to close the front of his coat.

“Oh, hi, Martin,” Rosie says, blinking at his outfit but not commenting on its strangeness, “Happy New Year’s Eve. I hope—well, I hope 2018 is kinder to you.”

Martin knows his smile is bland and barely-there. He hadn’t realised it was New Year’s Eve. He barely realises, nowadays, how cruel the previous year had been to him.

He cannot find himself to return the sentiment, although he’s not beyond politeness, not yet. “Thank you, Rosie.”

Rosie’s smile is as forced Martin’s. “I just wanted—the boss isn’t about, is he?”

“Which one?”

“Both?”

“I haven’t seen either of them since Wednesday.”

“Right. That’s good.”

“Is it?”

“Well, it’s Sunday today so… four boss-free days sounds kind of nice?”

Martin frowns. “Why are you here on a Sunday?”

“Oh, it’s part of Elias’s new ‘open all hours’ initiative.” Rosie shrugs. “Not like I really have anywhere else to be.”

Martin meets her eyes, but says nothing.

Rosie takes a deep breath. “Basira called. She left a message for you. She said you might not want to hear it, but that I should tell you anyway.”

Martin maintains his silence.

“She says they’re hopeful about Jon. He has a new doctor looking at his case. A doctor, um, Doctor Katzenjammer?” Rosie frowns. “I wrote it down. Maybe I should go and check.”

“No, I—” Martin catches himself. “That won’t be necessary. Was that all?”

“She’s worried about you.” Rosie chews her bottom lip. “We all are.”

“There’s no need to worry. I’m perfectly fine.”

“Martin—” But Rosie stops abruptly, her eyes fixed on something over his shoulder. He turns around just as she says: “Was that door there before?”

Martin sighs. “No.”

“Is that— _normal_?”

“As normal as anything else that happens around here,” Martin replies, “You should go back to your desk, Rosie.”

“Okay. I’ll be at my desk if you need me,” Rosie says, too cheerful, and leaves with the bite of compulsion quickening her feet.

With a sigh, Martin turns back towards the yellow door and lifts his hand to knock. Before he can, it swings open and Helen drapes herself across the frame. 

“Martin!” Helen says cheerfully. “Ready for our little holiday?”

“It’s not a holiday, Helen,” Martin mutters.

“I’ve never been to Scandinavia. It might be nice to look around. See the sights.” Helen laughs at Martin’s lack of reaction. “Come on, Martin. Lighten up, if you’ll forgive the pun. Can’t an Archivist take a winter break? Escape chilly old London for… well, chilly old Norway?”

Martin finally manages to work the zip on his coat, pulling it all the way up to his chin. “Can we please go now?”

“Alright. But I’m bumping you down to standard class for the impatience. No in-flight entertainment for you.”

Martin sighs. Helen rolls her eyes and gestures Martin through the door. He steps inside.

The experience is awful. Martin isn’t sure Helen’s equivalent of first-class travel would have been any better, but he does regret his impatience back at the Archives. He feels like he’s been descending the same spiral staircase forever. It’s stretching away from him, like a drill twisting further and further into the ground, and he feels sick as he watches its grooves coil into the technicoloured abyss beneath him. He clings to Helen’s consciousness nearby, which is just as upside down as her corridors, but grounding enough to take him to the next yellow door.

Martin opens it immediately. Whatever is on the other side is surely better than continuing along the corkscrew.

It’s dark and cold, as he expected. The torch is heavy in his pocket, but he doesn’t reach for it immediately as he steps out onto the snow.

“Well,” Helen says from behind him, “This is bleak.”

“I told you it wasn’t a holiday,” Martin replies.

“Not much to look at, is there? And I don’t just mean because it’s dark.” Helen doesn’t look inclined to follow Martin into the snow. “It was _very_ hard to find—like a dark spot on a map. The journey home should be a little smoother.”

“I’m going to investigate the facility. I’ll meet you here?”

“Where is ‘here’?”

“Just… can you be in the general proximity when I come out?”

“I can try.”

Martin sighs through gritted teeth. “ _Thank_ you.”

“Good luck!” Helen sing-songs, and then the door slams closed.

Martin lets the empty hole in his consciousness—the dark spot on the map, as Helen described—guide his feet through the thick snow, packed tight with cold and lack of interference. A nondescript rectangular warehouse rises in front of him, static and shadowed like a mountain.

The door, when Martin reaches it, isn’t locked. Or yellow. He steps inside, hearing his own footsteps echo around the nearly-empty space. The darkness here is so complete he knows his eyes will never adjust. He doesn’t even bother switching on his torch.

He’s not alone. He stops, listens.

“Who are you?” Martin says. His voice bounces off the walls around him, but it seems to be swallowed by the darkness after the first echo. He can feel the Dark creeping closer and closer.

There’s a scuffle from nearby, just as quickly swallowed by the black ink of the Dark as it embraces them.

“ _Who are you_?” Martin presses, this time with compulsion.

“Manuela,” says a voice through the darkness, “Manuela Dominguez.”

“Where is everybody else?”

He can almost her Manuela’s teeth grinding with the effort of resisting his questions. “Go. To. Hell.”

“ _Answer me_.”

“They’re _dead_ ,” Manuela says, “Because of _you_.”

“I didn’t kill them.”

“Your Institute. Your _Archivist_. She sent you to finish the job.”

Martin hums. He can feel his own static toying with the shadows, beginning to overpower their reach. “Not quite.”

“Who are _you_?”

“I’m the Archivist now,” Martin replies, “And you’re going to _tell me what happened_.”

Manuela Dominguez’s statement is impassioned and bitter in equal parts. She tells him of the People’s Church of the Divine Host, their attempt to manifest the Extinguished Sun, the lengths Maxwell Rayner and his ilk went to over the years to crystallise their power with the moment of the eclipse. The fury of their failure, the anarchy of the days that followed. The helplessness that remains.

“ _And here I have remained. Perhaps I have told myself that I am preparing, gathering my own strength, and making plans to continue the church in his name. But I think, in my heart, I have been waiting for this moment. For the final axe to fall, and finish the last remnant of our holy crusade_.” Through the darkness, Martin almost thinks he catches as glimpse of Manuela’s eyes as her statement comes to its end. “ _And here, at last, you are_. _Now you can kill me like the others_.”

“Statement ends,” Martin breathes into the silence. The power behind her statement—feeding from Manuela’s own power as an Avatar, her nearly-untouchable rank in the People’s Church—makes Martin’s veins sing. He feels fuller, stronger, more powerful. “I’m not here to kill _you_ , Manuela.”

“Then why—?”

“ _Show me the Dark Sun_.”

“You—you’re here to—”

“ _Show me_.”

Manuela resists. Martin can feel the way she tries to pull away from his control, but the more she withdraws, the tougher his command grows with some sort of esoteric elastic energy. She goes too far, and then her consciousness _snaps_ until she is entirely under Martin’s control.

He wishes he could say he wasn’t enjoying it.

“It’s just through that door,” Manuela spits out.

“ _Don’t follow me_.”

The door is metallic and cold to touch, even through the knitted gloves Martin is wearing. It’s not heavy—or at least, if it is, Martin doesn’t notice, his body alight with power in the wake of such an incandescent statement. He steps inside.

The Dark Sun sings to him. It’s not like the Eye’s static, but it’s not soft either. There is more of a melody to it, something unspeakable, perhaps, like the meeting point between the Dark and the Vast: the unknown, the expanse, that which no one can see. But Martin can _feel_ it.

It’s _beautiful_.

The song vibrates through him. He is almost afraid to end it. He pours all of the power he has stolen from Manuela, the very power that created this Dark Sun, into its destruction. He feels the edges of the expanse manifest into being. It is not used to be Known, being _contained_. It begins to crack under the pressure, piece by piece, like a mirror, until light bursts through and swallows it whole.

The light blinds Martin for a moment. When he blinks again, his cheek is pressed against the cold floor, wet with the snow and ice he carried in on his shoes. The power that was with him only moments ago has vanished, spent on the destruction of the Dark Sun. But it’s done. He can breathe again. It’s _done_.

“No. _No_!” he hears Manuela scream from the other room.

The compulsion has shattered with the Dark Sun. Her footsteps echo loudly now that the Dark isn’t so present, and Martin can hear her growing closer and closer, but he has no strength to pull himself up, to fight back.

A gunshot ricochets against the metal of the walls.

Martin tries to lift himself onto his elbows, to crawl towards the exit. Would a bullet kill him? A bullet killed Gertrude. He doesn’t want to die here, with the cold, with the darkness. This wasn’t part of his plan.

“Stay down!” shouts a familiar voice from the shadows of the room.

“Basira,” Martin gasps, letting his forehead drop back to the floor in relief.

Another two gun shots blast through the darkness. Manuela seems to have retreated. Or perhaps she’s been hit. Martin doesn’t risk reaching out for the knowledge.

Basira drops to her knees beside him. “Are you alright?”

Martin breathes against the cold floor.

“Martin?” Basira snaps. “Are you _alright_?”

Martin throws himself onto his back, pushes himself up by his elbows. He’s about to move away from her when he realises she’s still holding the gun. It looks odd, in the light let in through the open door, bouncing off the snow. He freezes.

“Relax,” Basira says, placing the gun back in the holster.

“What are you doing here?” Martin demands.

“Saving your arse.”

“But how did you— _how_?”

“I was still on the phone with Rosie earlier. Asked her to put me on hold, tell me how you reacted to my message. She said you were dressed for an Arctic expedition and that some yellow door appeared halfway through the conversation. I put two and two together, and realised you were off on your suicide mission to Ny-Ålesund much sooner than I was expecting,” Basira explains.

Martin outright stares at her. “How did you know I was going to come here?”

“Did you literally forget that conversation we had about Edmond Halley and John Flamsteed the moment I left the room?”

“No?”

“And besides, you’re not the only one who’s buddies with Helen. She told me where she took you. Let me travel here first-class, straight after you.”

“ _Helen_ bought you here?”

“Yep.”

Martin rubs his eyes. He wants to sleep for a week. “God, I—okay. Okay. This might as well happen.”

“I know you’re up to something,” Basira says, “I’ve been watching. You’re going through the entities almost methodologically. It was only a matter of time before you got to the Dark.”

“Should have been more careful with that one,” Martin mutters.

“You never used to be this _focused_. What’s going on?”

“I’m the Archivist now.”

“Yeah, you look _really_ all-powerful right now.” Basira rolls her eyes. “Listen, Martin, whatever you’re doing, I really think—”

“I _can’t_ tell you.”

“Elias can’t look into my mind anymore, not where we’ve been staying.”

“ _Don’t_ tell me. And you still have _eyes_ , don’t you?” Martin hisses. “He can _See_ all of us well enough, even here. So I’m not taking that risk. All you need to know is that I’m doing my _job_.”

“And what job is that?”

“The one that Elias and Peter have given me.”

“Peter? Peter _Lukas_?”

Martin doesn’t reply.

“This is bad,” Basira says, “This is really bad, and you can’t just—”

“I’m going back to the Institute now.”

“You can hardly stand.”

“I’ll manage,” Martin insists, but he’s not sure.

“Martin…” Basira takes a deep breath. “I found the tapes. About the End. Did you—that is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

Martin says nothing.

“You understood my code, didn’t you?”

Martin breathes through his nose, tries not to think about how Doctor Katzenjammer is an old code Jon and Georgie came up with at university for when they wanted to escape a social gathering early, how one could say “we should probably head off, we’ve got an early seminar with Doctor Katzenjammer” and the other would immediately be in on the act, how Georgie opened the door to Basira without a second thought and listened to every tape, how she has been going to visit Jon every—

_No_. He cannot afford weakness, not now. He pushes himself to his feet, glad he doesn’t suffer the indignity of stumbling or, worse yet, falling back down.

“We should leave before Manuela makes a re-appearance,” Martin says.

“Oh, you don’t need to worry about that,” Helen says from behind them, “She needed a door, and I was more than happy to provide.”

Martin manages not to shriek at Helen’s sudden arrival. There’s a yellow door in the middle of the now-empty storage room for the Dark Sun, and Helen is grinning like a Catherine wheel from the threshold.

“Will… will she come back?” Martin asks.

Helen looks thoughtful for a moment. “No. This one, I think I’ll keep.”

“Great,” Martin sighs.

“Ready to go home?”

“Yes,” Martin says, and steps through the door before Basira can protest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the jonmartin is coming soon I PROMISE!!!! also just to clarify as it might have been a bit confusing in this chapter, jon's POV is "present" and Martin's POV is "past" (but their timelines will be meeting very soon). have a wonderful few days, new update Monday <3


	10. sometimes wish i'd never been born at all

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Home sweet home...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER SPECIFIC CONTENT WARNINGS: invasion of privacy, weapons (gun, knife), funerals, canonical character deaths (Danny, Martin's mother), grief/loss, menstruation (very brief allusion to), implied past intimate partner violence and intimidation, implied/referenced child abuse and neglect, family estrangement, loss of family history, abandonment, addiction, withdrawal, blood, injury, swearing, the Hunt (Entity), physical weakness, dizziness, manipulation, insect bite, the Web (Entity), isolation, disassociation, the Lonely (Entity), kidnapping. 
> 
> Chapter title from "Bohemian Rhapsody" by Queen. yes, that iconic line. i had to do it.

“That was… easier than it should have been, right?” Tim finally dares to ask when they’re a good distance from the warehouse.

“Well, there’s a reason sneaking out under the cover of darkness is a classic ploy,” Jon replies, “It does tend to work.”

“True, true.” Tim looks at him with a smile in the streetlights. “Rebellious child, then, were you?”

“Weren’t you?”

“No, actually.” Tim’s smile wavers. “Reliable older brother and all that. Mostly stayed out of trouble. I did used to cover for Danny when he—yeah.”

Jon allows Tim time to compose himself. They walk on in silence. It’s only when they reach the nearest bus stop that Jon realises he doesn’t know where Martin’s flat actually _is_. Has it changed since the last time they spoke about his living arrangements? Since the last time he checked Martin’s CV, so caught up in his paranoia that he didn’t notice the information was faked?

Tim rolls his eyes and sits on one of the plastic benches to wait for the next bus. “Come on. I know where we’re going.”

The bus is quiet at this time of night. Tim seems to be flagging already, his head dropping against Jon’s shoulder as he resists sleep. He jumps awake when the automated voice tells them they’ve reached Stockwell.

It’s a ten-minute walk to Martin’s flat from the bus stop. Jon is surprised Martin didn’t move after being held hostage by Jane Prentiss in this very building, but he supposes he never really had the privilege of making that decision. He’s so deeply entrenched in regret about his behaviour after the attack on the Institute—after Martin moved out of the Archives—that he almost walks into Tim when he stops in front of tall, run-down block of flats.

“Home sweet home,” Tim says, “Think we can get one of the neighbours to buzz us in?”

The first neighbour they try actually goes ahead and lets them straight in, cutting off Tim’s convincing act of “I’m very drunk and I lost my keys” with the electronic beep of the door opening. Jon doesn’t question their good luck, just follows Tim up the stairs to the seventh floor.

“Do you know how to pick a lock?” Jon asks.

“Yeah, Sasha taught me.” But when he reaches for the door knob to steady himself while he kneels, he freezes. Very carefully, he twists the handle and the door creaks open on its own accord. “Oh. That’s… a bit worrying.”

“We should have borrowed Basira’s gun.”

Tim lifts an eyebrow. “Do you know how to fire it?”

“No, but—I’m sure I could—well, she never _taught_ me!”

“Did you ever ask her to?”

“There was no time. Speaking of which, we’re wasting ours. Come on.”

“After you, then.”

Jon takes a hesitant step into the flat. Nothing immediately jumps out at him—no worms, no alarm system, no stranger lurking in the shadows. No Martin. By some unspoken agreement, he and Tim seem to have come to the same conclusion that Martin won’t be home tonight. Hasn’t been home in a while.

Tim flicks on the light and closes the door behind them. The lightbulb splutters on, illuminating the flat. It’s a studio, small and practical: a double bed beneath the single window, a kitchenette with a table set against the outside of the counter that only seats two, a half-open door to the toilet and shower, a worn sofa facing the wall. There’s no television. Jon vaguely remembers Martin telling him he watches everything on his laptop, which is charging on the bedside table.

It looks like it’s been there for a while, along with the shirts and cardigans chucked into a pile on the arm of the sofa, the books stacked in one corner with a now-dead plant on top, the unmade bedsheets.

Tim goes into the kitchen and starts rifling through the cupboard. He pulls out a potato that has sprouted to the extent that it looks like an alien with a number of long, wild limbs. Jon can’t find it in himself to laugh.

“Looks like he last went shopping in… October.” Tim says, looking at the top receipt of the ones stuck to the fridge with a magnet shaped like a fluffy Highland cow. “And just for essentials: milk, tampons, bread and peanut butter. Bet that milk is still in the fridge. Yep. Nice. Went out of date on Halloween. Smells about right.”

“So he’s living at the Institute,” Jon says. He hasn’t moved from the entranceway, where Martin’s coat is still hanging, lonely, from a hook on the wall.

“Seems like it, yeah. At least since October. So, what, three months?”

Jon moves towards the table, where a number of bills have been organised carefully by type, with Martin’s writing clearly denoting which ones have been paid. Among the bills, there’s a glossier piece of paper that catches his eye. He pulls it out from beneath a letter from the dentist about missing two appointments in a row.

“ _Oh_ ,” Jon breathes.

It’s a funeral programme for Wiktoria Kowalska Blackwood: 9th July 1967—18th October 2017. There’s a photo on the front of a woman who looks nothing like Martin, smiling on what appears to be Blackpool Promenade. The picture is cut so that whoever is in it with her can’t be seen, but on the table beneath where the programme was hiding, displaced by Jon’s investigation, is the full image.

On her right is Martin’s father. Jon doesn’t need the Eye to know this; they look devastatingly similar, the same reddish-brown hair, the hazel eyes, freckles over pale skin. But there’s something missing from this man that always seemed ever-present in Martin. This stranger is not warm, doesn’t smile easily, even at the camera. He seems sharper around the edges somehow, and there is a suggestion of threat even in the way he has his arm around Wiktoria.

On her right, Martin sits, small and timid. He barely looks six years old in the photo, his legs swinging from the bench. He’s smiling a little, but most of his attention is on the stuffed donkey he has in his small hands. It looks relatively new, the sort of souvenir one might buy a child instead of actually letting them ride the donkeys. Martin seems to like it, doesn’t care about the substitution.

“What is the date on that receipt?” Jon asks. His voice is quiet, choked.

“16th of October. Why?” Tim moves around the kitchen counter to peer over Jon’s shoulder. “ _Shit_.”

“Basira never mentioned…”

“Probably didn’t know.” Tim picks up the full photo. “He looks… I don’t know. This must be, what, 1993? 94? Do you think they didn’t have any photos together after that?”

“Martin said his father left when he was around nine years old.”

Tim swallows. “I know this photo. It’s not—I don’t _Know_ it, know it. I just recognise what the last family holiday before everything goes to shit looks like.”

Jon places the programme gently on the table. “We shouldn’t have come here.”

“Jon—”

“No, this—this isn’t the right way to do this. We shouldn’t—he—” Jon scrubs his hands against his eyes. “I need a cigarette.”

“Not here, you prick. And I didn’t see any in the kitchen, so you’re gonna have to go to the Costcutters near the—”

“I know, I know. I didn’t mean—” Jon pulls one of the chairs away from the table and sinks into it. “Christ.”

“He hardly spoke about his family. I didn’t ask much. Didn’t want him to ask me, so I thought it was safer not to go first, you know?”

“We spoke about it once or twice. He said he didn’t remember what his father looked like, that his mother hid all the photos after he left.” Jon takes a shuddering breath. “He never knew much about either side of his family. His mother’s father moved the family from Katowice to Manchester after his wife died, and a lot of things got… left behind.”

Tim flinches. “Still a sponge of knowledge even without the Eye.”

“Yes, I—I suppose I did pay attention, after all,” Jon murmurs, “Georgie said I would try very hard to escape conversations around the time of my—that doesn’t lend itself well to sharing.”

“He knew enough about you, too, you know,” Tim says, “Not that he ever gossiped or anything. I could just tell. When I’d say something, he’d get this look like he knew better. Knew _you_ better. And I believe that.”

“Tim, I—” Jon has never felt so useless. Has never thought so little of all the words at his disposal, inadequate in the face of what he feels. “I miss him.”

Tim claps him on the shoulder. “Me too.”

Jon stays at the table while Tim wanders across to the bed. He picks up the donkey teddy resting on the two pillows stacked in the middle and holds it so Jon can see, shooting him a sad smile across the room. Jon finds he can’t return it. His eyes move back to the photograph.

“Jon. _Jon_ , there’s something—” Tim’s tone has changed suddenly. “Get over here. _Now_.”

Jon nearly trips over in his rush to get across the room. Tim’s holding a mobile phone, but there’s blood on its keypad. Blood that matches the drops on the carpet at the end of the bed.

“This is one of the burner phones Georgie gave us. She confiscated my phone after I kept texting Martin and gave me this _exact model_ ,” Tim explains.

“Is it Martin’s?”

“The blood or the phone?”

“Both.”

Tim nearly drops the phone when it starts to vibrate, the screen flashing with a familiar caller ID: Basira.

“Shit,” Tim hisses.

“Answer it.”

“But she’ll know we snuck—”

“I dare say she already knows. Answer it.”

Tim presses the answer button and puts it on speaker, but he says nothing.

“Daisy? Daisy, is that you?” Basira’s voice asks, quick and frantic.

“Basira,” Jon says.

Basira growls down the phone. “ _Fuck_. Where are you guys?”

“Martin’s flat.”

“I take it Daisy’s not with you?”

“No, she’s not. Why? What’s—?”

“She gave in to the Hunt,” Basira snaps, “I think she’s gone after Martin.”

“There’s blood on the carpet,” Tim says, “That doesn’t mean—?”

“I don’t know. I’m going after her.”

“We’re coming too,” Jon says.

“No way.”

“Basira—”

“No. Way. Go back to the safehouse and leave this to me.” Basira hangs up before they can protest further.

“We are _not_ going back to the safehouse—”

“Tim,” Jon interjects, before his anger can escalate, “I know where Daisy will go. She took me there, too. She has an execution spot in Epping Forest.”

“That’s not as reassuring as I think you intended it to be.”

“Sorry.”

“Let’s go, then.”

Jon nods, but he pauses on the way to the door. “Did Sasha teach you to hijack a car, by any chance?”

Tim hesitates for a moment. Then he admits: “Yep.”

“You’re serious?”

“Yes. And now is not the time to explain.” Tim pushes him towards the door. “I saw a Corsa parked outside that will do the trick.”

* * *

Martin’s strength has taken nearly a month to return after Ny-Ålesund. Even now, consuming up to four statements a day to build his energy, he’s not sure he can handle any sort of interaction with Peter or Elias.

Which is why when the latter descends into the Archives late one evening in early February, his first instinct is to disappear into the tunnels. The only problem is, he stands up too quickly and has to hold on to his desk while his vision clears. By the time it has, Elias has let himself inside Martin’s office.

“You’re looking a little pale, Martin,” Elias says, “I do hope you’re taking care of yourself.”

“I’m fine,” Martin replies. His voice holds a bite that makes Elias smile, but Martin slumps into his desk chair and wishes he’d never pushed such a lie. He looks down at the notes on his desk, hoping for a neutral escape.

“Interesting,” Elias murmurs.

Martin’s head shoots up. Elias is looking down at Martin’s wrist. Beneath the cuff of Martin’s shirt, there’s a small, blister-like scar where Annabelle Cane’s spider bit his wrist. More unusual is the web of veins that seem to spread around it, purple and almost pulsating. He Knows it’s not an infection, like he initially worried when he first saw it. Beyond that, he doesn’t know what the mark means for his usefulness to the Mother of Puppets.

“The Mother rarely makes herself known so explicitly,” Elias says.

“What does the Web want with me?” Martin asks. He’s not in the mood for skirting around Elias’s evasive interest.

“Normally, I would advise you to leave the Web well alone. It plays its own game. All you can really do is hope it doesn’t get in the way of whatever your plan is, because the Spider usually wins. If the Mother is interested in you…” Elias smiles again. “It’s a good job we have such a secure plan, isn’t it, Martin?”

Martin meets Elias’s gaze. “Yes.”

“I did come here to tell you some important information about your predecessor, but I can see you need rest. Perhaps you should go home for the evening? I know you’ve been sleeping in the Archives since your mother—”

“I can handle whatever it is you came to tell me.”

“Very well. Rosie informs me that Jon was released from hospital a few days ago, having made a full and miraculous recovery from a coma.”

Martin say something. He simply holds Elias’s gaze and waits.

Elias chuckles. “Peter really has got to you, hasn’t he?”

“Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“Go home, Martin. Before you reveal too much.”

“I’m sure nowhere is free of your scrutiny,” Martin says with a tight-lipped smile lacking entirely in friendliness or humour, “But if you want to watch me watch Netflix in my flat—”

“I’m giving you the night off. Take the offer and all of its… implications.”

Martin sighs. “Alright. Fine. I’ll go… home.”

“Goodnight, then, Martin.”

“Goodnight.”

Elias turns on his heels and walks slowly from the room. Martin sits at his desk, listening to the faraway clock tick for what he thinks is nearly fifteen minutes before he picks up the bag he no longer needs, because he no longer leaves the Archives, and sets off to catch the Northern Line.

There is no one on the Tube. Their faces blur and fade into nothingness. He doesn’t feel them brush against him, doesn’t hear conversation warring with the hissing and clanking of the train, doesn’t even register the announcement that tells them they’ve reached Stockwell. He does get off at the right time, though, and lets the fog carry him to his flat.

There are more keys on his keyring than before: the one to his flat, the one to the back door where the bins are, and then all of the Archive’s many doors and boxes and safes. He struggles, for a moment, to remember which one opens his own door. When he’s inside, the Lonely rolls away from him and fills the small space. He doesn’t look at the bills on the table, doesn’t bother checking the cupboards or the fridge. He floats to his bed, facing the tangled sheets he hasn’t slept in for months, and thinks about falling face first into sleep.

He doesn’t hear the footsteps behind him. He doesn’t hear the Hunter draw her knife, if she hadn’t drawn it before her approach. He does feel the cold press of a blade against his throat.

“Daisy,” Martin whispers.

“ _Shut up_ ,” Daisy snaps. She presses the blade close to his throat. “Not a word from you, alright? I know what you can do with them.”

“Daisy,” Martin says again, “ _Tell me about the Buried_.”

Daisy’s resistance is stronger than he expected. Perhaps it’s because he’s still weak from destroying the Dark Sun. Perhaps she’s stronger than she’s ever been, now that she’s found the Hunt again after so much distance.

She grips him by the shoulder, tearing through his shirt with her unnaturally sharp nails, and throws him to the ground. He sees her phone clatter out of her pocket with the speed with which she presses her foot against his throat and pins him down. The blood from her blade at his throat will stain the bottom of her boot, he thinks, slightly hysterical.

“None of that,” Daisy snarls, “Or I’ll kill you right here. I don’t give a fuck about what your freaky boss will do to me if I do.”

“Okay, okay.” Martin raises his hands in surrender as much as he can, pinned to his scratchy old carpet. “Daisy, I—”

“Quiet. You’re coming with me.”

“Where?”

“No more questions.” She tugs him up from the floor. “Keep quiet and follow me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [spoilers????] the timelines will FINALLY converge next chapter, which means JONMARTIN INTERACTIONS. the slowest of burns is finally heating up sort of maybe lmao [end sppoilers?????] please leave comments and kudos if you enjoyed, and have a brilliant day!!!! next update Wednesday <3


	11. regrets collect like old friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the woods, Jon reaches for Martin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER SPECIFIC CONTENT WARNINGS: swearing, dangerous driving, suicidal ideation, referenced alcohol and drunkenness, the Eye (Entity), the End (Entity), discussions of inability to feel fear, withdrawal, the Lonely (Entity), isolation, altered mental states, unreality, disassociation, police brutality, weapons (gun), the Hunt (Entity), blood, physical restraint, injury. 
> 
> Title from "Shake It Out" by Florence + The Machine.

“Jon, caravan. Jon, _caravan_. Jon, watch out for the _fucking caravan_!”

Tim lets out an overdramatic shriek and braces himself against the dashboard as Jon swerves around the caravan he saw the first time it was mentioned, thank you very much, and slots in front of the attached car to the sound of angry honks from a number of other vehicles.

“ _Christ_ , Jon, I know we’re against the clock here, but—”

“Shut up, Tim.”

“It was hypothetical, by the way. When I was trying to assign film franchises to entities and I couldn’t decide if _Fast and Furious_ would be the Hunt or the Desolation or the—basically, what I’m trying to say is, _I don’t need a demonstration._ ”

Jon doesn’t keep his eyes off the road, even though at the edges of his vision, he can see the speedometer inching over one hundred miles per hour. “Do _you_ want to drive?”

“No, but I _would_ like to make it to Daisy’s murder woods in one piece.”

Jon eases off the pedal enough to be within breaking distance of the speed limit and spares a quick glance in Tim’s direction. “Better?”

“Yep. Thanks.” Tim clears his throat. “Trying to be a bit more proactive about this ‘wanting to be alive’ thing, you know?”

“Yes, I—yes. Sorry.”

“It’s alright. It’s just—you wanna talk about anything?”

Jon feels his foot twitch against the pedal. “Right now?”

“I thought heart to hearts under intense pressure were your thing?”

Jon sighs. Loudly. “If you’re trying to diffuse the tension with humour—”

“No, no, I’m being serious. Actually been meaning to have this conversation with you for a while.” Tim takes a deep breath. “You remember the drive to Yarmouth? Rosie hired that van for us. It was too small and we all hated each other and the only radio station it would pick up was in French. You drove the last leg of the journey, and you were straight up _not_ having a good time on the A47. Like, maybe the Eye was supplying you with spooky road statistics and that’s why you insisted on driving like that? But I also remember that one time you drove my car when we went to that research seminar in Bath and I got drunk off the free gin and tonics, and you were _the_ most cautious driver I think I’ve ever met. And that was a while before either of us joined the Archives.”

“What’s your point, Tim?”

“My point is, I’d love to make fun of the fact that you’re driving like this because your repressed feelings _would_ manifest in something as ridiculous as breaking the Highway Code, but…” Tim is staring. Jon doesn’t need to be omniscient to know this. “I don’t think you’re scared. Just— _urgent_. Adjacent to fear, maybe, but not the thing itself.”

“Oh,” Jon murmurs.

“So… wanna talk about it?”

Jon cuts in front of another car, but at least this time he indicates. “Not particularly, no.”

“Have you thought about it at all? About what it might mean?”

Jon clings to the steering wheel. “I have been thinking about my—my _bond_ , as it were, with the End. And what that might mean for my ability to feel fear.”

“And?” Tim prompts.

“I think, like Georgie, I have…” Jon can see his knuckles turning white. “I have lost the ability to feel fear. It has been— _taken_ from me, or—or cauterised. When I let Georgie lead me back from the End’s realm, I think perhaps I… left it behind.”

“Was that where you were? After the Unknowing?”

“I believe dreams are a realm where the Eye and the End fight for dominance,” Jon replies, “So, yes. Insomuch as I _could_ dream in my state, that’s where I was.”

“How does that make you feel?”

Jon huffs a humourless laugh. “Well, not scared.”

“Jon, I’m trying my best over here.”

Jon lets out a sigh that’s closer to a growl as he makes an abrupt turning, all but throwing the battered Corsa onto a narrow shortcut to Epping Forest’s snaking inner realms. “I mostly just feel… I feel _guilty_. I should be terrified for Martin. I’ve lived this scenario, I remember how it felt, and the thought of Martin coming to harm is—well, it’s _not good_. But every time I reach for my fear, it’s not where it should be. No, it’s not there at all. And I don’t understand how I can _care_ so much for someone but not feel terrified at the prospect of them coming to harm!”

At the crescendo of his anger, Jon nearly veers off the road and into an ominous line of bulbous trees. He slams his palm against the wheel in frustration once they’re back on the bumpy track, but he eases off the pedal again and lets the car trundle along at a reasonably safe speed as he regains his breath after the outburst.

“Jon,” Tim says softly, “I think fear has defined our lives for a while now. Too long, really. And I know how fear gets mixed up in so many different emotions, how some Avatars love their patrons as much as they fear them, and how we’ve—well, we’ve all come to define ourselves through fear in some way, haven’t we? But fear isn’t a measure of worth. Fear doesn’t _prove_ how much you care about a person. In fact, after everything’s that’s happened, I think it’s kind of nice to imagine a love that doesn’t revolve around constant fear.”

“But in this situation—”

“Yes, in this situation, fear would be an understandable thing to feel. But you can’t do anything about the fact that your fear’s gone on a permanent holiday, so why not _use it_? Go into this situation with a level head and get Martin back.”

“Right. Okay. That—that sounds doable.”

“Great, love the enthusiasm.”

“Thank you for—”

“Stop the car!” Tim shouts abruptly.

Jon slams on the breaks, and they’re both thrown against their seatbelts as the car comes to a screeching halt in the middle of the road. It’s a good job they’re not being followed by another vehicle. Jon pulls on the handbrake and turns the engine off. Tim puts his hand against the dashboard and breathes.

“Basira’s—her bike—we’re—” Tim gasps.

Jon throws open his door and stumbles out of the car. It’s overwhelmingly dark in this part of the forest, but Tim’s right: Basira’s motorbike is parked on the side of the track, a few metres back, just after Tim shouted at him to stop. They’re in the right place, then. Jon’s memory didn’t fail him.

Tim’s own door flies open, but he falls to his knees almost as soon as he gets out of the passenger seat. Jon strides towards him and lifts him up by the arm, leaning him against the car until he regains his strength.

“Sorry,” Tim murmurs, “Long night.”

“This is the place,” Jon replies, “We shouldn’t be far from…”

Tim offers Jon the hat he stole from Martin’s house. They’re both already bundled inside too-big borrowed coats. “Ready to go?”

Jon takes the hat and pulls it over his head. _Of course_ Tim would give him the knitted green beanie with the frog eyes, which looks like it belongs in a school playground rather than a murder hotspot, and keep the plain black cap for himself. He glares when Tim laughs.

“Come on,” Jon snaps.

Basira’s motorbike is parked next to a small break in the trees, barely disturbed. Jon and Tim squeeze between the trees, their shadows almost pulsating in the odd darkness around them. It’s not _the_ Dark, but there’s something unnatural about it, like the absence of life itself, rather than light.

As they go deeper into the trees, taking it in turns to trip into one another, a snaking mist starts to overwhelm them. It’s choking out the light, leaving droplets on their coats, dampening the ends of their hair where it escapes the hats. They cannot see their feet, then their legs below their knees, then their legs entire. It’s like wading through an icy lake in clothes that are too heavy for real movement, dragging them down, slowing their movements with exhaustion, until each step feels monumental.

“What is…?” Tim wheezes. “What is this?”

“I think it’s the Lonely,” Jon murmurs in quiet wonder. Because it’s the closest he’s been to Martin in months. Because it’s so much more powerful than he realised, and the numbness, the cold, it’s almost like a song, lulling him towards an empty rest. He wants it. He thinks it wants him, too.

After a while longer—time seems to have lost all meaning, spooling out before them like the endless fog, untouchable—Tim trips and doesn’t get up. He kneels on the forest floor, his chin barely above the fog, and wavers like a hologram as Jon pulls himself to a painful stop among the circling fog.

“Keep going,” Tim growls, but the exhaustion has taken all the bite out of his voice.

“I can’t leave you,” Jon protests, even as he feels oddly detached from Tim, from his concern.

“You _can_. Keep. Going. Find Martin.”

Jon blinks. He remembers this purpose: _find Martin_. It seems to be the only thing his mind can cling to any longer. He lets his body start to move again, drifting from Tim. The fog is an old friend, an amicable but aloof cat he follows idly down the street even though it won’t let him pet it. He trails his fingers through the mist. It’s soft and wet, like rain, like he imagines clouds might feel. He’s lost.

“Jon,” says a distantly familiar voice, and a hand grips the shoulder of Martin’s puffy coat and shakes him, “ _Jon_.”

The fog doesn’t clear from around them, but Jon feels it start to fade from his mind until Basira’s face materialises fully in front of him. “Basira?”

Basira shakes him again. “I _told_ you to go back to the safehouse.”

“Martin,” Jon says frantically, “I have to find—”

“ _Shh_ ,” Basira hisses.

From deeper in the forest, there’s the muffled sound of shouting. Basira listens for a moment before tugging Jon in the direction of the noise. The mist cushions their feet, makes their movements slow but quiet, until they’re within hearing and seeing distance of the commotion that drew them in.

Martin is on his knees, his back to Daisy. He has his hands in the air, fog curling between his fingers like rings, and they don’t shake with fear or cold. He seems lifeless, even as Daisy stands behind him with her arm raised, the barrel of her gun pressed against the base of Martin’s skull.

“ _Make it stop_ ,” Daisy growls, her voice high-pitched but unnatural, like it doesn’t quite belong to her. There’s a snarl behind each word. “Make it _stop_!”

“Only you can make it stop, Daisy,” Martin murmurs, distant and faraway, and not because of the space between him and the hiding place Jon and Basira have squeezed into, behind the bulging trunk of a tree.

“Tell me to drop the gun,” Daisy grinds out through sharp, bared teeth.

Martin doesn’t seem to move, even as he talks. “Is that what you _want_?”

“I don’t want—I’m _not_ a monster. I’m _not_.”

“Then you know what to do.”

There’s a pause. Even the fog seems to be holding its breath. And then Daisy lets out a scream of frustration, but the gun hardly wavers even as her arm shakes with the effort she seems to be putting into dropping it.

“I can’t,” Daisy says, “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.”

Basira makes to step around the tree. Jon grabs her arm.

“If I compel you to drop your gun, it won’t last long,” Martin tells her. His voice carries now, even though he’s facing away from Daisy. “The Hunt will come back stronger than ever soon enough.”

A desperate stream of tears burst from Daisy’s eyes, even as her face is twisted into a snarling version of herself, almost beyond recognition. “Then what do I _do_?”

“Fight it, like you’ve done before.” Martin pauses. “ _Tell me about the Buried_.”

“No. I can’t—don’t make me go back. Please don’t make me—”

Before Jon can stop her, Basira tears away from him and steps into the clearing behind Daisy. “Daisy. It’s me.”

The human parts of Daisy’s features flash with recognition. It’s like she’s wearing two masks, overlapping, placed atop one another _ad infinitum_ : wolf, woman, wolf, woman, wolf, woman. Tears continue to leak from her eyes, alight with an internal red glow that overpowers the original blues and greens.

“Basira,” Daisy murmurs.

“Let him go,” Basira says gently, “You’re not a monster, and neither is he.”

Daisy’s finger twitches near the trigger. Jon moves around the tree, too, making sure to keep out of Daisy’s peripheral vision.

“That’s not true,” Daisy snarls, “We’re both monsters.”

“No, Daisy.” Basira takes a step closer, aborted when Daisy pushes the gun firmer against Martin’s skull. “Monsters are _made_. You can make a decision. Make a decision and never go back.”

“And if I decide to _make_ myself a monster? If I pull the trigger?”

“Daisy—”

“ _Don’t_ come any closer,” Daisy warns.

“You don’t need to do this, Daisy.”

“We were _looking_ for him.” Daisy’s voice deepens with the Hunt. “I _found_ him.”

“Not like this, Daisy. Not like this. We were looking for him because he’s our friend. You remember, don’t you? He saved you from the Buried. He—”

Through the fog, the world starts to move too fast, a burst of motion after a too-comfortable interlude. At another mention of the Buried, Daisy’s hand tightens around the gun, and her finger twitches against the trigger. Basira throws herself towards Daisy at the same time as Martin launches himself to his feet. And Jon is moving, moving as fast as he can even as his mind is telling him it will be _too slow_ , _too slow_ , _too slow_.

The gunshot shatters the silence, cuts through the mist. Jon reaches for Martin, his fingers splayed, pushing his whole body towards where Martin is standing. To his left, he hears Daisy hit the ground with a grunt, the gun clattering out of her hand as Basira restrains her.

And Jon is still reaching, always reaching. For something that is no longer his, has never been his.

His hand brushes against the edges of the mist as it seems to implode. And blood. He touches blood, too, blood without a body. It splatters across his fingers just as the fog folds in on itself and vanishes.

Jon falls to his knees. He pushes his hands into the debris of the forest floor, dirt pressing under his nails as he moves through leaves rotted with rain and fog, twigs snapped and sharp, the soft caress of buds barely poking through the cold-packed ground.

“The bullet,” he mutters, frantic, to himself, “The bullet.”

“Jon,” Basira says, her knee in Daisy’s back as she lies, face-first, on the ground, sobbing into the mud.

“The bullet—it’s not here. It should be here.” Jon sits back on his ankles. “Why isn’t it here?”

In the distance, he sees a spec of fog, like a beacon. Jon stands. He runs, ignoring Basira’s shouts of protest. Towards the fog. Towards Martin. He’s haring through the trees, dodging their branches with an agility he no longer knew he was capable of, jumping over roots and puddles as he reaches once again for Martin.

The fog is thickening. The fog is getting closer.

This time, when Jon reaches, he makes contact. He touches the torn shoulder of a shirt. A familiar blue shirt. He remembers touching this shoulder, once, when the material was intact. Remembers saying, _get some rest_ , and leaving Martin sitting on the edge of the cot, exhausted, afraid, but no longer besieged. Jon holds as tight as he can, as tight as he should have done that night not so long ago, and they both go tumbling to the forest floor in a tangle of limbs.

Jon comes to a stop on top of Martin. There’s a moment of stillness after so much movement and desperation as the both of them breathe. Jon’s face is pressed into the space between Martin’s shoulder and earlobe, and he listens to the pounding of Martin’s pulse in his neck as his own breathing starts to level out.

“Martin,” Jon whispers.

Martin exhales, his breaths settling, but his heart is still beating loudly in his throat against the soft cartilage of Jon’s ear. Jon feels a hand touch the back of his head, a thumb brush against the green wool of a borrowed hat.

“Nice hat,” Martin murmurs, a hitch of humour his voice.

Jon raises his head from Martin’s shoulder to look down at his face. “I borrowed it. You don’t… you don’t mind?”

Martin’s lips twitch. But a frown eclipses his feature as his hand moves from the back of Jon’s head to his cheek, fingers brushing just below the harsh purple of the bruise from Tim’s punch. “What happened?”

“Tim.” Jon lets out a short laugh. “Believe it or not, we’ve actually been getting along.”

The concern vanishes from Martin’s face, along with every other emotion, every hint of softness and recognition and relief and humour and joy. It’s like he’s suddenly wiped every trace of himself from his expression, until all that looks back is an empty version of Martin with only fog behind his eyes, icy and fathomless.

“You need to leave,” Martin tells him.

Jon shakes his head. “Not without you.”

In a snatch of strength, Martin wraps his hands around Jon’s wrists and switches their positions, so that he’s kneeling over Jon’s body, pinned to the forest floor. Jon is not sure he would feel afraid even if he still had the power within him.

“Listen to me,” Martin says.

“Always, Martin.” Jon manages to smile up at him. “Always.”

Martin’s eyes are cold and empty as he stares down at Jon. “I am the Archivist. Anyone close to me burns. You are no exception.”

“Martin—”

“Stay. Away.” Martin’s hands tighten around Jon’s wrists. “I’m not—I’m not who you think I am.”

“I know you,” Jon whispers.

“No.” Martin releases Jon’s wrists, pushes his hands into the ground on either side of Jon’s head until he’s on his feet. He puts distance between himself and where Jon is slowly sitting up. “You don’t know me. You _cannot_ know me.”

“Martin, you’re—” But a flash of red among the encroaching fog startles Jon from his reverie. With Martin’s back to him, he sees it: the hole in Martin’s shirt where Daisy’s bullet hit, a spreading bullseye growing from his bottom two ribs. “You’re injured.”

Martin turns, putting the injury out of view. “It will heal.”

“Come with us. There’s a safehouse—”

“ _Don’t_.” Martin’s eyes cut into Jon. “I can’t—you can’t tell me things like that.”

Jon stares at him. The cold seems finally to have infiltrated, sinking into his skin, turning his body into a stiff and unmoving spectre among the sea of fog. “Come back. Martin, please. _Come back_.”

“I haven’t gone anywhere, Jon.” A humourless smile lifts Martin’s lips for just a moment before fading away. “Not yet.”

“This isn’t you.”

“How would you know?” Martin says, his voice distant, echoing. “Did we ever really know each other?”

“ _Yes_. Of course we did.”

Martin seems incorporeal now, so pale he’s hardly visible against the fog as it seems to close around him like a loving embrace. “Goodbye, Jon.”

“Martin, listen, I—”

“Don’t follow me,” Martin tells him softly, all but invisible.

“Martin. _Martin_!”

Jon reaches for him, but there is nothing there. Jon shouts, but his voice does not carry to anyone but the looming trees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to 2 Fast 2 Fearless: Sims & Stoker. 
> 
> hope you enjoyed Jon and Martin FINALLY speaking to each other........
> 
> next update Saturday!!! have a good few days!!! <3


	12. the pull on my flesh was just too strong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin parts with his ribs. Jon parts with the notion that he can hide his feelings for Martin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER SPECIFIC CONTENT WARNINGS: blood, injury, bones, body horror, the Flesh (Entity), the Lonely (Entity), the Spiral (Entity), the Hunt (Entity), the Eye (Entity), scopophobia, manipulation, disassociation, vomiting (mention), withdrawal, addiction, altered mental states, delusions, delirium, fever, grief/loss, the Stranger (Entity), the End (Entity), the Vast (Entity), suicidal ideation (mention).
> 
> Song title from "Broken Crown" by Mumford & Sons.

It’s nice to know he stills bleeds.

And he does bleed, all over the old shirt he’s had since he started working at the Archives, all over his chair and the notes on his desk from the statement of Herman Gorgoli, the map of Cheadle and the Post-It note that had turned into an unrelenting sketch of fog. Deep, swirling, endless fog. He touches it as he holds on to the desk for balance, leaving red fingerprints among the smudged grey of the pen marks.

He sits at his desk and he stares. He wonders how much blood an Archivist can lose.

“I’m impressed, Martin,” says Peter, materialising with a burst of high-pitched static, “It’s quite the skill, using the Lonely to travel such a distance.”

“And while injured, no less,” Elias adds, stepping into the office without announcing himself. Martin did not hear his approach, and he wonders if it’s because of the blood loss or the way the Lonely still clings to him, muffling the world. 

Martin closes his eyes and drops further into his chair. “It will heal.”

“Yes, I dare say it will heal better than your relationship with your old colleagues,” Elias muses, “Although a Hunter’s bullet is the sort of injury that… lingers.”

With a sigh, Martin forces his eyes open. “What do you _mean_?”

“You can feel it, can’t you: your skin closing and opening around the wound?”

“Tell me,” Martin snaps, because he can feel it, and he wants it to stop. Needs it to stop. There’s a cold, needling sensation against his back each time the wound sucks itself closed, only to be ripped open again by a hot flash of blood, the tearing of skin. And then it repeats, closing and opening, again and again, like a blinking eye. Never settling.

“The bullet is lodged between your ribs. It will need to be removed,” Elias explains, “I know a man, but his methods are… unconventional.”

“Nothing the Archivist can’t handle, I’m sure,” Peter says, falsely jovial.

Elias smiles coolly. “Do you agree, Martin?”

Martin does his best to glare, even as he feels the hole in his back start to eat into his skin again, a blooming flower of blood and pain turning towards the harsh burn of sunlight. “Who the _hell_ are you talking about?”

Elias’s grin is even more sinister than before. “Jared Hopworth.”

“Of course,” Martin sighs, too numb to feel angry.

“I’m sure he can remove the bullet as effectively as any surgeon,” Elias says.

“And your ribs alongside it,” Peter adds.

“Ah, yes. Well remembered, Peter.” Elias momentarily turns his smile to Peter before levelling his gaze on Martin once again. “Jared accepts rather unconventional payment for his services.”

“Where is he?” Martin hates himself for asking, almost as much as he hates himself for the way he would do anything to have the bullet out, even if it means sacrificing some of his ribs in the process.

“Last I heard, he was in the vicinity of Glasgow,” Elias supplies, unhelpful as ever, “I can make some enquiries. Or perhaps you could ask your friend with the yellow doors for some assistance?”

From the curious look in Elias’s eyes, fixed at a point over Martin’s shoulder, Martin knows one of Helen’s doors has appeared in his office again. Before he can turn around, he hears the door ease open and the sound of a creaking, fleshy body move out of its spiralling depths.

The door promptly slams shut. By the time Martin’s summoned the energy to move his aching body, the door is gone. There’s no sign of Helen. And Jared Hopworth is standing behind him, a hulking figure too tall to be human, all mismatched limbs stuck haphazardly to a fallacy of a torso.

Oh, god. He remembers Ross Davenport’s statement a little too well.

If Martin were still capable of horror, he might have shrunk away. He might even have vomited into the bin he keeps beside his desk. But he’s no longer inclined to moments of cowardice, and he doesn’t have the energy to try and regain the ability in this room full of dangerous allies.

“Ah, just the man we’re looking for,” Elias quips, “Jared Hopworth, I assume?”

Jared’s voice is a deep, sickening, crackling thing. There’s a wetness to it, as if it’s passing through lose flesh or too many voice boxes on the way out of Jared’s multiple mouths. “That’s what it says on me licence. Mind you, the picture’s a bit out of date.”

Jared’s laugh is even worse than the crack and slither of his voice. Martin spots a tape recorder whirring on his desk, beneath a pile of statements, and really wishes he had it in him to burn it later.

Elias looks Jared up and down. “I can imagine.”

“What do you want?” Jared demands, all sense of humour gone.

“A favour,” Elias replies.

“And what do I get out of it?”

“I understand you stumbled through a yellow door after a small altercation in Glasgow. It seems your latest pop-up gym attracted the attention of a vampire who was picking off some of the patrons coming and going from your establishment at odd hours. Unfortunately, the same vampire was itself being Hunted. Julia Montauk and Trevor Herbert took care of the vampire situation, then thought they ought to take care of you, too. Lucky for you, a yellow door appeared, and you decided whatever awaited on the other side was better than the Hunter’s knives. Not such a fan of cutting and pasting limbs when it’s not you in control, are we?”

Elias’s lips twitch, almost hungrily, and Martin tries not to absorb the vicarious enjoyment of Jarden’s unwillingly statement, spoken through another’s voice but no less pungent with his terror. Instead, Martin dedicates himself to remembering a piece of knowledge he knows will be important later, might even be a concealed threat: Julia and Trevor are back in the UK. Still Hunting vampires. But how long until they decide to head down to London? 

“Alas, what waited on the other side of the door was corridors,” Elias continues, “Endless corridors. How long has it been since you stepped through the door? You can’t remember, can you? But you don’t want to go back. I can ensure you never fall into the Spiral’s trap again so long as you assist my Archivist.”

Jared considers the offer for only a moment. “Alright. You know what it is I do: put somethin’ in. Take somethin’ out. Which is it?”

Elias quirks a pointed eyebrow at Martin. “Martin?”

“Take something out,” Martin replies, weary and wary in equal measures, “Apparently, I have a bullet stuck between two of my ribs.”

Jared considers him with multiple, mismatched eyes. “Accurate assessment, I’d say.”

Martin pushes himself up in the chair with a slight groan. “It won’t heal unless the bullet comes out. I assume. I hope. It—the bullet, that is—belongs to someone like the people you escaped from. A Hunter.”

Jared lifts a hulking, unnatural shoulder anchoring far too many arms. The movement is accompanied by a slick, popping noise. “Sounds doable.”

Elias claps his hands together cheerfully. “We’ll leave you to it, then.”

“W-wait,” Martin blurts, before he can stop himself, “How do I know he won’t just… _kill_ me?”

Elias and Peter exchange an indecipherable look.

“Does that scare you?” Peter asks.

“No,” Martin replies, and thinks he means it, “But I won’t be much use to you dead, will I?”

Elias considers this. “That’s true. Do you offer any guarantees, Jared?”

“Guarantees? None,” Jared replies, “But I want not to go back into those tunnels more than I want to kill your Archivist. Will that do?”

“Perfectly.” Elias gestures towards the door. “After you, Peter.”

Peter disappears in a pop of static rather than taking the proffered door. With a put-upon sigh, Elias departs from the office, leaving Martin alone with Jared.

“Questions?” Jared croaks.

Martin allows himself one moment of weakness. An indulgence, before the pain he knows will follow, and perhaps wipe away all memory of this conversation. “Is this—does it _hurt_?”

“Dunno. Doesn’t hurt me.”

“Yes, but are you even capable of feeling pain at this point?”

Jared looms closer, a heaving mass of stolen limbs and undulating skin and creaking, crowded bones. Martin shrinks into his chair.

“Sorry, sorry,” Martin squeaks, “I’m all out of questions. Absolutely no questions left for me to ask. Let’s get this over with? Please?”

Jared extends one of his hands towards Martin’s ribcage. Martin is grateful for the darkness when it takes him first, before the pain.

* * *

Jon can’t remember when Georgie placed the blanket around his shoulders. He can’t know for sure that it was even Georgie, but no one else seems to be in the state to notice him shivering on the sofa or have any altruistic inclination towards doing something about it. Besides the Admiral, of course, but he is not in possession of opposable thumbs and fell asleep in Jon’s lap sometime before the appearance of the blanket.

In the bathroom, Daisy and Basira have circled between a verbal argument, what sounded like a physical altercation, and then the prolonged sound of sobbing from Daisy, which lessened and then settled into silence once Basira ran a bath. Now, it sounds like Daisy is washing the blood and dirt from her skin, and counteracting the fast-acting withdrawal with the warmth of the water, under Basira’s watchful eye. That situation is contained, at least for now.

Tim is not faring so well, in part because he’s not conscious enough to fight back. He’s lying on the middle mattress, lingering in a half-present feverish state as Melanie crouches unhappily and Georgie tries to coax him into swallowing an unbranded, ubiquitously orange energy drink. Tim switches between two deliriums, viciously accusing all of them of being agents of the Stranger, stealing those he loves from him, and alternatively calling out to Georgie as if she were the real Sasha. Jon cannot decide which one is worse.

All at once, Melanie snaps. She puts her hand around Tim’s ankle, squeezing until he stops spitting accusations at Georgie, the tirade of _your face is not your face is not your face is not your face_ coming to a slow but sure halt. “Tim, listen. _Listen_.”

“Sasha?” Tim murmurs, his lips cracked, his voice ruined.

Melanie’s lips twitch downwards, but she gives no other reaction as Jon watches her reflection on the blank television screen. “Yes.”

“Sasha,” Tim breathes, his voice infused with cruel relief.

“You’re not well. I need you to drink this, get those electrolytes down you. Maybe take some paracetamol while you’re at it. Do you think you can do that?” Melanie takes a deep breath. “For me?”

Tim licks his lips, considering, but his gaze isn’t fixed on any of them with consistency or precision. “Yeah. Yes.”

“Good. _Good_.” Melanie waves in Georgie’s direction. She stumbles into motion, putting the bottle of energy drink against Tim’s lips until he starts to drink. “That’s it. Well done. You’re doing so well, Tim.”

Tim manages to swallow two paracetamol tablets with the energy drink before falling into a fitful sleep. Georgie places a cold compress on his forehead, and they all wait with baited breath until it seems like he’s going to stay asleep this time.

“Thank you,” Georgie whispers to Melanie.

In the television’s false mirror, Jon watches Georgie reach for Melanie’s hand. He turns away before he intrudes on the moment that passes between them.

After a while, Melanie lies down on her own mattress and puts in one headphone, saying she’ll keep an ear out for Tim waking up while she listens to her audiobook. Georgie joins Jon on the sofa.

“I’m not sorry,” Jon murmurs.

“I didn’t expect you to be,” Georgie replies, “Doesn’t mean I’m happy with you. It’s not safe out there.”

“You said yourself that End-aligned individuals have a certain immunity to the Eye.”

Georgie nods. “I’m calling it the ‘one foot in the grave’ club.”

“And I believe you mentioned that membership of this club includes a metaphorical umbrella of protection.”

“Right, but I didn’t say you could _share_ the metaphorical umbrella. What about Tim?”

Jon knows he’s being illogical. He might even be accused of sulking. But his mind is elsewhere, and his common sense with it. “It was his idea.”

“It was your idea to spend your entire monthly budget on getting the jukebox in Balliol bar to play that song the Vice-Chancellor was trying to ban from campus,” Georgie replies, “But I still felt partly responsible when the Lord Lindsay cut you off for the rest of the year as punishment.”

“Why did you have to use that example?”

“Seemed pertinent.”

“Please don’t share that with the others.”

“Too late for that.”

“Can you even remember what the song was?”

“No. Can you?”

“No.”

Jon softens at the sight of Georgie’s smile. He’s lost, drifting, but here he has friends. He has people to worry about, people who he can help, and he’s been too busy stewing in self-pity to notice the urgency.

“How is Tim?” Jon murmurs.

Georgie plucks at the disintegrating sofa. “He needs a statement.”

“He won’t read one.”

“If he doesn’t…”

“What? What do you think will happen?”

Georgie seems to force herself to meet Jon’s eyes. “I think he might die.”

Georgie’s statement forces Jon back into his body, back into the safehouse and the realisation of just how urgent the situation is. He feels the Admiral stir in his lap at the sudden tenseness in Jon’s body, the way his stomach twists and his heart pounds as he realises how far Tim’s withdrawal from the Eye has gone.

“No,” Jon says, “No, we—I won’t let that happen.”

“We can’t _force_ him to read a statement.”

Jon puts his hand in the Admiral’s fur, trying to calm his nerves. “I think I might have an idea.”

“Am I going to like it?”

“Probably not.”

Georgie sighs. “What is it?”

“I Knew which statements wouldn’t record on anything other than tape long before I could admit it to myself. Rather early on in the Archives, I stopped even trying to record particular statements on my laptop and reached for a tape recorder without thinking about it. It unnerved me when I cared to notice, but for the most part it was… convenient, and time was not on our side.”

“Where is this going?” Georgie ventures, somewhat cautiously.

“There is one statement I Knew wouldn’t record on my laptop, but a cursory read of its contents before I committed it to tape revealed it to be…”

Georgie’s lips quirk like she’s resisting a smile. “Tell me.”

“You don’t need to know this particular detail.”

“But I _want_ to.”

“It involved a kayaking holiday in Scotland, during which a young man repeatedly resisted the call of the Vast because the monster trying to lure him didn’t look enough like the blurred images he’d seen of the alleged Loch Ness Monster before his trip.”

Georgie gapes at him. “You’re not serious.”

“Unfortunately, I am very serious.”

“And you recorded this?”

“Of course not,” Jon snaps, “The Institute has a reputation to uphold and, at the time, I was invested in keeping my job.”

Georgie’s laughter bursts out of her, all in one go. “Oh, my _god_. That’s hilarious. Honestly, the best thing to ever come out that dungeon of a workplace. But… how is it going to help Tim?”

“It’s Tim’s favourite statement.”

“So you think you can get him to read it?”

“The statement giver was unharmed, and the little follow up I allowed Tim to do showed no one else had gone missing in the vicinity of the Loch where the kayaking expedition took place.”

“But for Tim, it’s more the principal of serving the Eye. So even if it’s his favourite statement, is he really going to read it?”

“What other options are available to him? I believe, this time, he wants to live.”

“Yeah,” Georgie murmurs, “Yeah, me too.”

“I know where the statement is. Helen can take me to the Institute, and—”

“Oh, Jon, come _on_. You almost had me fooled. It’s cruel to joke about a statement involving the Loch Ness Monster!”

“Georgie, I am being serious.”

“So you just happen to remember Tim’s favourite spooky statement right after a confrontation with Martin in which he was injured, conveniently giving you a reason to visit the Institute where you know he’s currently living?”

“That’s not why—”

“ _Jon_.”

“The statement exists. I’m not lying to you about that. And if retrieving it means checking on Martin, so be it.”

“Look, Jon, I know you care about Martin, but—”

“Georgie, I—”

Jon looks at Georgie, and he thinks she must see all the things he can’t say but means, _means_ right down to his bones, because her expression softens. She reaches for his shoulder, places a gentle, grounding hand there.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to say it.” Georgie glances over at the bathroom door, still closed. “I should probably ask Basira first, but I don’t want to interrupt. And I can’t stop you from doing this. I’m not gonna try.”

“Thank you, Georgie.”

“Just… promise me you’ll be careful?”

“I will.”

“And _please_ come back.”

Jon gives her a small smile, as close to a promise as he can manage. “So, how do you usually call on Helen to—?”

Before he can finish the sentence, a yellow door appears in front of the television. It swings open, and Helen shimmies half of her tall, slim, contorted disco ball of a body out of the frame. “You called?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> collegiate universities are strange places. i feel like i should put a little disclaimer here and say Georgie's example wasn't based on real events or people, i made it up. but for context, the Lord (or Lady) Lindsay is basically the person who runs Balliol Bar. pls feel free to choose what song was banned from campus - in my mind, it was political or one that students used for shenanigans, not something Genuinely Awful like Blurred Lines or the such. Jon probably didn't feel that strongly about it, it was just the principle of the thing. Jon can have a little rebellion, as a treat. 
> 
> also i Do Not like the Flesh. sorry to Helen for not giving her the opportunity to drop Jared into a river in this fic :/ 
> 
> next update on Monday, have a great weekend!!! <3


	13. your hands can heal, your hands can bruise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin and Jon reunite in the Archives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER SPECIFIC CONTENT WARNINGS: injury, body horror, blood, the Flesh (Entity), disassociation, the End (Entity), surveillance, the Eye (Entity), the Web (Entity), manipulation, discussions of canonical character deaths (Sasha, Jon's grandmother), grief/loss, scars, the Lonely (Entity), isolation.
> 
> Chapter title from "Poison & Wine" by The Civil Wars.

When Martin wakes, he’s not alone.

The presence is unusual, in that it is sudden and urgent but almost untouchable. It appears from the tunnels, jolting Martin out of whatever state he’d been floating in. Not sleep, there were no dreams. Something more merciful, then. It’s not a mercy to be awake, not with his body stiff and aching and missing two ribs. And everything still primed and reaching towards this new consciousness inside his office.

He knows it’s there, but his own mind skirts around it, like a moth trying to reach a light inside a lamp. There is something deathly about it—the way the End is promised but not set in stone, a vow taken without assurances. Impossible to touch, even though there is a corporeal inevitability about it.

Before he reaches further, before he Knows, a soft voice speaks into the silence: “Oh, _Martin_.”

Martin stares at the wall of his office. Jon’s office. He remembers a many-fingered hand reaching for his ribs, closing around the bottom two and the bullet they were holding captive, before the fold of darkness. And now this: lying on the hard, wooden floor of an office that has belonged— _belongs_ —to them both, with Jon standing over him. He stares at the wall. Waits. Hopes, although he does not know what for.

The floorboards creak as Jon drops to one knee, followed softly by the second as he moves closer to where Martin lies. Martin feels his breath hitch even before Jon’s hand touches him gently on the shoulder.

“Martin?” Jon ventures, his voice _so_ gentle, and Martin wants to cry. “Martin, are you—what _happened_?”

Martin forces his breath to loosen in his lungs. He’s missing two ribs, he thinks, reminds himself, and wonders if his lungs feel the lack. “Jared Hopworth.”

“Christ, he didn’t—” Jon’s hand tightens on his shoulder. “Did he take something from you?”

“Just a…” Martin wheezes. He tries to move, and regrets it instantly. Jon’s hand is keeping him in place now, keeping him together. “Just a rib or two. Don’t need those anyway, right?”

“Martin—”

Martin wishes he could move on his own. Wishes he could remove himself from the office, from this conversation. “I told you not to follow me.”

“I had to know you were alright.”

“And now you do. You should leave.”

“I’d hardly call this _alright_. Look at you. You’re—” Jon takes a deep breath, seeming to settle something within himself. “Let me help you, Martin. Please.”

“You shouldn’t _be_ here, Jon,” Martin hisses. But there’s no real power behind it. He is, after all, lying on his office floor in a pool of his own blood while Jon insists he’s not alright. Oh, how the tables have turned.

“Elias can’t See me.”

“No, but I’m pretty sure he can See _me_. And my thoughts have gotten… a fair bit louder since you arrived.”

“Oh,” Jon murmurs, and Martin hates how much he loves the surprised, almost pleased upturn of the exhale.

“Please go.”

“I can’t leave you like this.”

“If Peter—”

“Peter? Peter Lukas? Martin, he’s—not good.”

“Yes, and if you’d let me finish my sentence, you would _know_ I—”

The phone on Martin’s desk starts to ring, shrill and sudden. Martin startles, and the jolt that runs through his body sends a shock through the space where his ribs—and Daisy’s bullet—used to be. He winces, trying to supress a moan, but he knows by the way Jon’s hand grips at his shoulder that it was unsuccessful.

“Can you… would you answer that?”

“The phone?”

“What else, Jon?”

“And you’re going to take the call from the floor?”

“Well, I can’t exactly get up, can I?”

“Do you really need to answer it?”

“It’s unprofessional not to.”

“It’s unprofessional to take a call while—”

“ _Jon_.”

With a put-upon sigh, Jon moves over to the desk and presses the speaker button.

“Hello, is that Martin?” Annabelle’s voice crackles through the phone.

“Annabelle,” Martin wheezes.

“I’m sorry to call so late,” Annabelle replies, sing-song, smug, “But I just wanted to let you know I got a little bored and decided to dedicate my night to playing games with your mentors.”

“Don’t do that.”

“What, no stomach for games?”

“No, I just— _mentors_?”

“I was struggling for a suitable word. You do know what I mean, though, don’t you?” There’s the briefest of pauses, and Martin Knows she’s smiling on the other end. “And don’t worry, I haven’t left you out of the proceedings. I had my spiders deliver you a message. I’m sure you Know where it is. Of course, it can wait until you’ve recovered from your ordeal with the Boneturner. And until you’re… _alone_.”

Martin can see Jon out of the corner of his eye, stiff and unmoving, as if Annabelle might be able to hear him if he so much as breathes. “Is that everything?”

“For now,” Annabelle says, “Goodnight!”

The line beeps and closes before Martin can reply.

For a while, the only sound is his and Jon’s discordant breathing.

“Well, that was…” Jon murmurs, still sounding breathless. “Unexpected.”

“Not really. She sort of pops up out of the blue sometimes. Even dropped by once. Gave a… statement, although it wasn’t really about her.”

“You’ve met her? Annabelle Cane?”

“Yep.”

Martin can hear the way Jon’s curiosity overtakes him. “What was she like?”

“Jon, I don’t really—”

“Oh, right, yes. Sorry. God, _sorry_ , you’re—” Jon returns to his side, his hand once again on Martin’s shoulder. “Let’s get you up.”

“ _No_ ,” Martin snaps, so sharply Jon withdraws his hand, “You should go.”

“I’m not leaving you like this, Martin. I _won’t_.”

“I can’t afford to—”

“You heard Annabelle,” Jon murmurs, “Elias isn’t Watching, not tonight.”

“So she wants you here for a reason. That can’t be good, Jon. You need to go, before she _does_ something. Or someone else does something. It’s not safe here.”

“Martin, please, I—” Jon seems to choke on some unsaid truth. “I want to help you. J-just for tonight, let me—let me be here. Please.”

Martin turns his face away to stare at the wall again. There’s a crack in the skirting, and he dedicates his mental faculties to debating whether or not it’s nefarious, another hint at Gertrude’s unorthodox approach to archiving or simply an innocent mark of age. He doesn’t think about Jon’s closeness, Jon’s gentleness.

“Fine, just—” Martin sighs in frustration, even though it irritates the wound where his ribs are missing. “Help me to the room where—well, you know the one.”

Jon’s smile is almost audible. A soft, relieved creature of its own, filling the silence with its gravity. “Yes, I—I know the one.”

Very carefully, Jon helps Martin to sit up against the wall. This, in itself, is an ordeal. Martin feels as if his entire abdominal cavity has been ripped open and reorganised, and twisting his torso in any way results in a fresh wave of agony that makes him sweat and gasp in time with Jon’s flinches and apologies. He leans against the wall, regaining his breath, while Jon simply crouches in front of him, a grounding hand on his shoulder.

“Alright?” Jon asks after a while.

Martin nods. “Alright.”

Jon pulls Martin to his feet. There’s a period of awkward manoeuvring wherein Jon puts Martin’s arm over his shoulders, presses his side into Martin’s uninjured one as they shuffle through the Archives to the small room they’ve both repurposed as a bedroom in times of need. They make it without too many stumbles. It’s painful, laborious work, but Jon’s patience doesn’t waver even as Martin weakens and cries out the longer he’s on his feet.

Martin doesn’t have the energy to be ashamed of the empty, hollow thing he’s made of the room that was once an odd sort of sanctuary. It was ruined after the worms, of course, and then Jon had made it his own again, but Martin has since decimated the warmth, the lived-in feel of the place. It’s a husk of a shelter with the same old frame of a cot and an only slightly newer mattress Sasha—or the thing that called itself Sasha—found on eBay after the previous one got incinerated by the ECDC. It’s a lonely place and, without Jon’s presence, Martin could have believed he liked it that way.

He makes to pull away from Jon, throw himself onto the bed. Jon doesn’t let him go.

“No, not yet. Not yet, Martin,” Jon says soothingly, “Just, uh—keep leaning on me, but we should get you out of that shirt before you lie down. It’s ruined.”

“Fine,” Martin breathes.

There’s a cruel intimacy to Jon’s ministrations as he holds onto Martin with one arm, using his free right hand to awkwardly unbutton the front of the ruined shirt. Jon keeps his eyes on his task, but Martin cannot help but stare at the crown of his head where he’s bowed over slightly in concentration. Even as Jon slowly eases the shirt off, pulling on the sealed-over wound and aggravating where the blood had previously congealed, Martin keeps his eyes on Jon’s hair.

It’s short, Martin thinks. From the coma. The nurses must have shaved it. Is that something nurses do? He could Know, if he really wanted to, but all of Martin’s energy is going into the dual tasks of imaging what it might feel like to run his hands over the short fuzz of Jon’s hair and resisting the way his body twitches with the human desire to experience it first-hand.

“There we go,” Jon murmurs, almost to himself, and absently throws the shirt onto the floor. He glances up, then pauses when he finds Martin’s eyes fixed on him. “Are you—do you…? Martin?”

Martin simply looks at him. “Jon.”

“There’s, um… there’s blood on your trousers, too.”

“Is there,” Martin says flatly. Not surprised, not angry. He doesn’t care about such things anymore. Before, he would have been moved almost to tears at the thought of having to go through all the effort of finding a new, affordable pair of work appropriate trousers that also happen to fit comfortably.

“Should I…?”

“Might as well.”

Jon methodologically loosens his belt, then his trousers, and slides them to the floor. With Jon’s help, Martin steps out of them and once again moves towards the bed.

“Ah, you’ve still—”

“More blood? Really?” Martin sighs, surprised by the frustration in his voice. It’s a feeling, a familiar one. Yes, he thinks he used to be very familiar with this brand of mild but persistent irritation.

“Where do you keep the first aid kit these days?”

“My desk,” Martin replies by rote. And by his desk, he means Jon’s old desk, which he sees register with a degree of strange panic on Jon’s face.

“Your—your desk or—did you—sorry, it’s—it’s fine, I’ll find it.”

“Thanks.”

“You just… sit down. And don’t—don’t go anywhere.”

Martin slumps onto the edge of the bed with a small sigh of relief. It hurts to be sitting down, bent in half again, but it’s still nice to be off his feet when everything is so dizzying. He doesn’t even care that he’s only in his boxer shorts. “Thanks.”

“I’ll—I’ll be right back.”

Jon _is_ right back. Martin knows it can’t be this literal, but he’s losing time. He blinks and Jon is standing over him again, but this time with the first aid kit, and he knows time has passed even as he fails to observe it in a tangible way.

“Let me just—there they are.” Jon fumbles with a pair of latex gloves. When Martin squints at him in confusion, Jon gives him a lopsided smile as he slaps the last glove up over his wrist. “You wouldn’t even apply a plaster without these.”

Martin feels like this is something he should remember. “I wouldn’t?”

“Tim frequently gave himself papercuts on statements. Sasha—” Jon chokes on the name even as it fills Martin with only a cold emptiness, like drinking a glass of water and unexpectedly swallowing the ice in it. “Sasha cut him off from the, uh—the cots, I think they’re called, after one too many innuendos about their… well.”

“Oh,” Martin murmurs. He wishes he felt something more. He wishes the fog in his mind didn’t hide this from him.

“And you—well, you were always taking care of us in some way.” Jon’s smile is far too fond, and Martin hates how he can’t rouse any sort of feeling to match it. “I think Tim enjoyed getting half an hour of medical attention for a minor workplace injury. And I—I imagine I was giving you a hard time. So if you were drawing out the time it took to apply a plaster by insisting on multiple safety measures, well, I can hardly blame you.”

Martin says nothing.

“I’m sorry, Martin,” Jon says, his smile vanishing, “I’m _so sorry_.”

Martin frowns. “What for?”

“I’m sorry for—for everything. God, I’m sorry for all of it.”

Martin laughs humourlessly. “You’re going to have to be a bit more specific, Jon.”

“I’m sorry for the way I treated you. There is—I have no excuses, only the—the promise that I will try to do better. No, I _will_. I will do better. By you.” Jon looks down at him, first aid momentarily forgotten. “I’m sorry for the Unknowing. I’m sorry I didn’t—I listened to the statement you gave before, and I—I really did try to make it back home, but I…”

“It’s hardly your fault, is it?” Martin mumbles. And then cuts himself off before he says too much, before he steps back in time to the night of the Unknowing and his own trip to the hospital for a wound that has since defined his life.

“I’m here now,” Jon whispers, “Martin, I—tell me it’s not too late.”

Martin doesn’t reply. He lets the silence stretch out, more comfortable with its oppressive glare than the lies he will have to tell to give Jon any indication that he’s heard this confession of a statement, until Jon crouches next to him.

“I’ll—let’s get this cleaned up, so you can rest.” Jon gives him a kind smile, rifling through the first aid kit until he draws out a sterile wipe. “This might sting a little. That’s—that’s what I’m supposed to say, isn’t it?”

Jon lets out a small, nervous huff of a laugh. He seems to be talking to himself again. He wipes away the blood from Martin’s ribs until all that’s left is the odd-shaped wound where Jared reached inside of him. The scar, forming more quickly than is normal, is relatively clean, a scythe-like stretch of raw, protruding skin underneath his now-smaller ribcage. But around it, there are small marks like fingernails, as if he’s been scratched and clawed at, inside and out, by far too many hands and fingers. It makes him shudder when he looks at it, and Jon’s mouth is set in a firm line as he takes in the damage.

“It’s just another scar,” Martin says dully, gesturing at the silvery, healed hole in his shoulder where Melanie’s blade made contact. He’s getting a collection, just like Jon.

“That’s not the point, Martin.”

“What _is_ the point, then?”

Jon is still crouched in front of him. Very carefully, he puts his hand on Martin’s knee. “I should have protected you. From this. From Elias and Peter and—”

“It’s not your _job_ to—”

“If I’d been here—”

“What would you have done, Jon? No, seriously, tell me what you would have done to protect me from Jared and Elias and Peter and everyone else who wants to harm me?” Martin snaps. “You would have taken it on yourself. All of it. And I’d just have to sit around and watch you suffer, like always. At least this way, I—”

“At last this way, _what_?” Jon’s anger rises momentarily to meet Martin’s. It seems to take them both by surprise, the storm of emotion they can stir in one another. “Do you have plan? Is this what you _want_? Because if you think _this_ is somehow better than—”

“Of course it’s better. I’m—I can handle this.”

Jon deflates, his anger replaced by a deep, exhausted sadness. “Martin, you shouldn’t have to. Let me _help you_.”

“I don’t _need_ help,” Martin says, “What I need is for you to _leave_.”

“I’m not going anywhere, not tonight.”

“Jon—”

“I don’t care what web Annabelle is weaving. If being caught in her trap means I get to spend the night here with you, so be it.”

Martin doesn’t have it in him to argue. The fight drains out of him, until he just feels empty again, dull and distant despite the way Jon’s closeness is tugging him towards something dangerously like defiance. “Fine.”

“Martin, I’m not leavi—oh.” Jon’s lips twitch. “Right. Okay, then. I’ll—do you want a cup of tea?”

Martin blinks. Almost smiles. “Yeah. Yeah, that sounds…” He wants to say _nice_ , but it feels wrong. “Watch out for Rosie. Elias has this new ‘open all hours’ initiative and she’s taking on the brunt of the overtime.”

“Will do. Well, I’ll…. Be back, I suppose. With tea.”

Jon awkwardly shuffles from the room. With a sigh, Martin gingerly lowers himself onto the cot and tries to settle in as comfortably as possible. He thinks about the painkillers he has stored in his desk drawer, but he’s too tired and sore to get them, and he’s not sure he can bring himself to ask Jon either. He simply waits.

He’s almost asleep when Jon returns with two steaming mugs of tea, placing them on the upside-down box that counts as a bedside table. Martin has turned his back, almost subconsciously, to the door in the time it’s taken Jon to make the tea. It takes the pressure off his healing ribs, but more than that, it means he doesn’t have to look at Jon.

And yet, when he _feels_ Jon lingering unsurely, he can’t stop himself from saying: “You can sit down. On the bed. Or…”

“Yes, I—thank you.” Jon moves to sit down, then stops. “Are you cold?”

“I don’t know,” Martin replies. He can’t remember the last time he felt the cold.

It’s still nice, the feeling of Jon tucking the blanket up over his shoulders before he sits on the bed. So nice is a word in Martin’s vocabulary, after all. The bed dips slightly with Jon’s presence, and Martin finds an easy, uncomplicated comfort in the weight of his closeness.

“Why are you really here?” Martin asks the wall.

“I think Tim is…”

“The Loch Lomond statement,” Martin says, realising immediately that Jon took a little longer than expected to make the teas because he was also in the Archives, finding Tim’s favourite written statement. Martin _had_ come across it in his recent recording drive, but he couldn’t bring himself to read it for reasons he doesn’t like to examine when Elias or Peter might be watching him.

“How did you—? Oh.” Jon’s laugh is small and humourless. “I remember that.”

Martin blinks at the wall. “Does it get easier?”

“I… I don’t think I got far enough. To answer that question. Sorry.”

“I guess I’ll find out.”

“You could… turn around,” Jon murmurs, “Abandon this path.”

“I think I’ve already gone too far.”

Jon adjusts the positions of the mugs on the bedside table. Martin listens to him do this, envies him the ready and available distraction.

“It’s—well, it’s not entirely an excuse, the Loch Lomond statement, but I am here because I was worried about you. After Daisy. After—well, since I woke up,” Jon persists, “I think I wanted… I wanted you to be there.”

“Don’t do this, Jon.”

“Tell me what to say,” Jon says softly, “Tell me how to help you.”

Martin closes his eyes. “I don’t know.”

“I could… give a statement?”

“ _No_ ,” Martin practically growls.

“Alright. Alright, no statement.”

Tentatively, in worried, twitching movements, Jon lies down on the bed next to him. Martin lets him, doesn’t say a word, because the feeling of Jon’s bony shoulder against his back is the most comforted he’s been in months. And he needs it. Just for tonight, he needs it.

“How’s the poetry?” Jon asks, incongruously, after another stretch of silence.

Martin almost laughs, but he thinks that would hurt too much. “Well, I haven’t really had a lot of time recently, so…”

“I suppose you haven’t had much time to… read any poetry either, then?”

“Not really, no.”

“Did you read Tennyson in school?” Jon blurts.

“Not—not before I dropped out, no. But I’ve read some since, I think. _Ulysses_ , is that—is that him?”

“ _One equal temper of heroic hearts/Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will/To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield_ ,” Jon recites, almost dreamily. “Yes, that’s the one.”

“I thought you didn’t like poetry.”

“Oh, I don’t. Which makes it even more of a curse that I seem to remember the last lines of every poem I’ve ever read.” Jon chuckles briefly at himself. “I had hoped it was the Eye.”

“From my experience, the Eye isn’t much of a poet.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“Why Tennyson?”

“He’s the only poet I could think of. Other than Keats, but he hardly deserves mentioning.”

Martin rolls his eyes. “You are _so_ pretentious.”

“I know.”

“Tell me…” Martin takes a deep breath. “Tell me something about you. Not a statement. Just… something about _you_.”

“Well, I…” Jon seems to search for something to say. “I was raised by my grandmother, but you know that. How about—? Hmm. Well, we had a cat. When I was younger. His name was Second Lieutenant Socks, because he had white paws. He showed no interest in progressing through the ranks. Not that my grandmother seemed inclined to promote him, anyway. It was nice. To have something to talk about. We could both complain over dinner that the Second Lieutenant had tried to convince us he hadn’t been fed that day, and the silence wouldn’t feel so… long.”

Martin drifts with the sound of Jon’s voice, low and soft.

“I used to pretend to enjoy football. I was hopeless at it, of course, but I kept appraised of the score whenever Bournemouth would play. Mainly to gauge my grandmother’s mood. She was very invested in their success. I think my father played for their youth academy, and she liked to—maintain the passion he once held.”

Martin blinks in disbelief. “For football.”

“Yes,” Jon says flatly, though not without humour, “For football.”

“I’m trying very hard to imagine you being invested in football.”

“I can explain the offside rule. I can’t explain, however, why it seems to incite the crowd to near violence whenever it’s evoked.”

Martin laughs, then flinches when his ribcage twinges. “I think it’s the principal of it. No one likes the referee.” 

“When she died, I didn’t cry. I was braced for it, even though she hadn’t been ill. Then Bournemouth got promoted and I picked up the phone to call her and I realised she was gone. That was when I cried.” Jon stops, and Martin can feel him almost shake himself next to him on the bed. “Sorry, that’s—I didn’t mean for this to be—miserable. I’m trying to cheer you up.”

“That’s what you’re doing?”

“Yes. Is it working?”

“Undecided,” Martin replies, “Tell me something else.”

“I once tried to get the train to Scotland by myself when I was ten. I got as far as Peterborough.”

“That’s… quite far, actually. Not far as in close to Scotland, but—you know.”

“I can’t remember why I wanted to go.”

“Maybe to see the good cows?” Martin offers, and even to himself, it seems to come from nowhere. Some depth of feeling he thought he’d placed out of reach.

He feels Jon shuffle, turn so he is facing the back of Martin’s head. “Good cows?”

“Highland cows,” Martin elaborates.

“Right.”

“I like how fluffy they are.”

“I… I hadn’t thought about it. Before,” Jon says, “But yes, they are—fluffy. And good.”

Martin clears his throat. “The tea’s probably—”

“Oh, yes, right, it’s probably—getting cold. You’re right. Should we, ah—?”

“Yeah.”

They sit together, shoulder to shoulder against the wall at the head of the bed, and drink their tea. And they talk into the night, about things too soft with love and time to belong in statements.

* * *

The next day, Peter finds Martin staring at the two empty mugs on what counts as his bedside table. He’d woken up alone, the only sign that Jon had been here the extra cup, the twin circular tea stain.

“That isn’t a great sign, if I’m being completely honest,” Peter says instead of a proper greeting.

“They’re both mine,” Martin tells him dully, “I wanted tea.”

“I wish I could believe you, Martin.”

“This changes nothing.”

“I should hope not,” Peter continues, “Elias is expecting our findings on the Extinction in less than a month. We don’t have time to waste on… sentiment.”

Martin forces his eyes to Peter’s. “I’m ready.”

“Are you, Martin?”

“Yes.” Martin stares him down, and says again, and means it: “ _I’m_ _ready_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHH this was my favourite chapter to write so far!! 
> 
> p.s. if you wanna know why Sasha banned Tim from using them after one too many innuendos, look up "finger cots". i promise it's not a trap.
> 
> thank you to everyone who's left kudos, comments and bookmarked this!!! next update Thursday, have a wonderful few days!!! <3


	14. wearing a warning sign

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A date with death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER SPECIFIC CONTENT WARNINGS: the End (Entity), death and dying, existentialism, food, the Lonely (Entity), the Eye (Entity), the Web (Entity), manipulation, isolation, insomnia, depersonalisation, chronic illness, hereditary illness, implied/referenced child abuse and neglect, abandonment, parental estrangement/separation, discussions of experience of being a young carer, poverty and economic hardship, memory loss, religion, suicidal ideation, anxiety, canon-typical worm mention, swearing, withdrawal, police brutality, use of threat/intimidation, eye trauma, referenced self-injury/harm, referenced surgery, ableism, referenced canon character death (Eric, Gerry, Martin's mother, Melanie's father, Gertrude), grief/loss, the Slaughter (Entity), crying, helplessness. 
> 
> okay we are getting Martin AND Melanie backstory in this chapter, which is where the bulk of these cws come from. also the chapter summary is a pun and not a reference to a specific character death. let me know if you want any specifics, or would like a chapter overview rather than reading. stay safe!!! <3
> 
> Chapter title from "you should see me in a crown" by Billie Eilish. i feel like Melanie would approve of this song choice.

Annabelle Cane’s message is a time, a date and a place, which finds Martin at a small café near the Institute on a Wednesday afternoon, waiting for a trap to spring up and swallow him whole.

Instead, he is approached by a polite gentleman who exudes the patient but unnerving gravitas of an End-aligned Avatar. Martin can sense the untouchable edges of his consciousness the moment he enters the café, and the man seems equally drawn to Martin the moment he spots him at the table tucked into the corner.

Martin stands as the man comes to a stop next to the table. Their table?

“Hello. Martin, isn’t it? Do you mind if I call you Martin?” the man says as he comes to a stop beside the table. “It’s just, well, ‘Archivist’ sounds so formal. And I feel like we _kind_ of know each other already.”

“Martin is fine,” Martin replies, a little taken off-guard by the man’s soft, civil approach. Charmed, even. He offers his hand. “Nice to meet you…?”

The man reaches to complete the handshake, but something seems to stay his own hand before it touches Martin’s. His eyes fix on Martin’s wrist, although not specifically on the noticeable scar left by Annabelle’s spider. It’s as if he’s looking at something clamped _around_ Martin’s wrist, like a gauntlet or a vine.

“Perhaps, maybe best not to, uh, shake hands,” the man says apologetically.

“Oh. Oh, of course, that’s fine. Sorry.” Martin returns to his chair, unoffended, and waits for the man to take a seat opposite him. “I’m sorry, I never caught your name?”

“Oliver Banks,” he replies, sliding into the free chair, “But you might know me as Antonio Blake. In your statements. I don’t really think either name has much meaning to me anymore.”

Martin appraises him across the table. “Did Annabelle send you?”

“Yes. I’m sorry I’m late. Awfully rude of me. It’s just—I tried not to let the spiders into my head, but you know how she gets. And I did want to meet you, I really did.” Oliver offers a small smile. “You’re not like your predecessor.”

“You’ve met Jon?” Martin blurts before he can help himself, surprised by the strength in his voice, by the way it seems to have grown out of a jealously that long ago took root in his heart, right alongside his helpless crush on Jon.

“Oh, no. No, I meant the old woman. She stuck her nose in just about everywhere it wasn’t wanted and stirred up hornets until all the precautions in the world couldn’t stop death from finally catching her.” Oliver sighs. “I probably shouldn’t’ve bothered warning her. Still, you live and learn, don’t you?”

“ _Are_ you alive?” Martin asks.

Oliver hums. “Define ‘alive.’”

“I’m not sure I have a definition.”

“Neither do I. At least, not before coffee. Can I get you anything?”

Martin blinks at him in dull confusion. “No. I’m okay, thank you.”

Oliver goes up to the counter and orders. Martin stares at the circular stains on the metal table where people have put down their mugs and wonders vaguely why Annabelle Cane set up this meeting in an establishment with a two-star food hygiene rating. It doesn’t seem to bother Oliver, who returns with a tray balancing a plate of carrot cake and, to Martin’s surprise, two mugs.

“I got you some tea. Just plain old Breakfast tea, I’m afraid,” Oliver says, as he places it all down on the table, “But Annabelle said you liked tea. I just said tea a lot of times, didn’t I?”

“Oh, you really didn’t have to—”

Oliver waves him away and takes a seat. “It’s the least I can do.”

“Uh, thanks. Thank you.”

“So,” Oliver begins, “Any idea why Annabelle set this up?”

“No, I, um, I don’t really… it’s hard to say. With Annabelle,” Martin replies.

“Yeah. I don’t really think she’s in the blind dating business.”

Martin freezes halfway reaching for his mug. He thinks he might have choked if he was already drinking the tea. “Oh. I—I didn’t—”

Oliver chuckles. “Sorry. Sorry, Martin, it’s—I don’t talk to many people these days. Putting my thoughts outside myself, it gets a bit clumsy. Maybe that’s why Annabelle sent me to you? I hear you Archivists have a way of getting people to speak their mind.”

“Is that what you—do you _want_ me to take your statement?”

“I’m not sure.” Oliver studies him closely across the table. “You’ve been—how do I put this— _marked_ by a fair few of the Entities, right? Any idea which was the first?”

“I mean, I have some theories?” Martin replies, a little shakily. “Annabelle insisted it wasn’t the Lonely, but I… I’ve taken to it quite well. A little too well, maybe.”

“That’s unfortunate. I met a Lukas once. Not much fun, although I probably don’t need to tell you that.”

Martin couldn’t laugh even if he wanted to. “Not really, no.”

“I knew who I was meant to be meeting as soon as I walked through the door. You looked up at that little ping the door does and I thought, _ah_ , _there he is_ ,” Oliver continues pleasantly, “Annabelle never described you or anything. It was a—feeling, I suppose. Which is a little worrying.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m aligned with the End. I’ve never really had that sense of… unsettling kinship with anyone other than individuals also touched by my patron.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Martin breathes, and suddenly a lot of things seem to make sense.

“Maybe I could… help _you_ with a statement?” Oliver offers.

Martin stares into his mug. It’s a dull, watery attempt at tea, and he thinks longingly about the cup Jon made for him after Jared Hopworth’s surgery. He thinks longingly about Jon. If Elias wants to mentally stalk him into questionable cafes, so be it. At least Peter will be put off by the imminent lunchtime rush of people.

“How about I go first?” Oliver asks, when Martin doesn’t reply.

Martin nods. “Okay. If you… if you don’t mind?”

“Do your thing.”

The Eye supplies Martin with the introduction, as usual. “Statement of Oliver Banks, regarding his dreams and his attempts to run away. Taken direct from subject by the Archivist, February 14th 2018.”

What follows is a quiet, disturbing statement that transforms from a case of insidious sleeplessness into something far more dangerous. Oliver’s desperation for a peaceful sleep, the lengths he went to in securing his trip to Point Nemo, the way he directed the ship to the coordinates of the falling satellite. It ends with blunt finality, like the lives on the boat: “ _But I barely got the first word out before the falling debris hit the ship at 200 miles an hour, killing us instantly_.”

Martin waits for a moment, but Oliver doesn’t continue.

“Statement ends,” Martin says. He takes a deep breath. “So, I assume you… got better?”

“Yes. Or, well, I ascended into the state of living in which I currently exist,” Oliver replies, “Unfortunately, I can’t say the same for the other members of my expedition. Or Doctor Pritchard’s expedition, although I suppose _I_ am—well, you know. It all gets a bit complicated, after a while.”

“What does?”

“Personhood.” Oliver’s dark eyes fix Martin in place. “I imagine you understand that as well as I do.”

“And you think something like that happened to me?”

“I can’t know for sure, but we could… find out together?”

“Christ, maybe I am a ghost,” Martin mutters.

“What was that?”

“Oh, just something someone, um, asked me once. Whether I was a ghost, that is.”

Oliver puts his hand on the table, palm-up. “I haven’t encountered any ghosts yet. That’s not to say they don’t exist. Shall we find out what version of alive you are, Martin Blackwood?”

Martin lifts his hand, but hesitates, much like Oliver did when they first greeted one another. “How did you—?”

Oliver laughs softly. “Don’t worry. Annabelle told me. I didn’t read your name in an End-aligned Leitner or anything like that. I just think it’s a nice name.”

“Oh. Thanks, I guess?” Martin’s hand is almost touching Oliver’s now, but he has one last confession to make before his statement: “I think I’m starting to lose touch with it, too. My name. Personhood.”

“That’s what happens to us Avatars, I’m afraid.”

Martin puts his hand in Oliver’s. He needs the touch, to know he’s real. To know he hasn’t lost himself yet. “What do I do?”

“Turn the Eye on yourself, maybe? Have you ever done that before? And I’ll channel my experience with the End into you,” Oliver explains, “That—might work. Worth a try, at least, right?”

With a deep, shaking breath, Martin summons the familiar static, but instead of directing it outwards, he wraps it around his own thoughts. It dispels the Lonely, a quick game of cat and mouse giving way to an opening, an unfurling, until he’s falling backwards into his own memories. The words are compelled out of his throat before he even realises what’s happening.

“I know everyone sort of defines their life against death—because they’re opposites, right, that’s what anyone _normal_ would tell you—but my relationship with both has always been more complicated,” Martin says, “I guess when you grow up the way I did, you start to realise that life and death aren’t binary. It’s not night and day, more like that between-time in the morning, when everything is so quiet it’s like only you exist. Sometimes it’s peaceful. Sometimes it _hurts_ with how lonely it is.

“I always liked poetry, even the really popular stuff that probably wouldn’t actually impress an English teacher or anything. You know that Walt Whitman quote: _Do I contradict myself? Very well then, I contradict myself; I am large, I contain multitudes._ That’s sort of how I feel about life and death, and my place in the middle of them.

“I wasn’t meant to exist, my parents never intended to have me, and I don’t remember them telling me this but I always _knew_ it. It’s like one of those memories you seem to be born with. But despite all my parents’ precautious, I turned up anyway. And maybe for a time, it was okay. You know that phrase, ‘happy accident’? That’s how I was sometimes referred to by my grandad. I liked him. His name was Martin, too. Well, Marcin. And he made me feel like my life was worthy just because it was mine and I was living it in that moment. I got to spend time with him after school when my parents were at work and that always made me feel better. He taught me Polish and we cooked and listened to the vinyl records he collected. Sometimes, he’d even take me to the record shop in Stockport where he got them from.

“When my mum started to get ill, I was sort of… busy. It sounds wrong when I put it like that, but there was so much tension in our house. It was a small house anyway, but I felt like I could never escape them, like no matter where I went I could feel their disappointment and resentment. Things weren’t great between my parents. I don’t know when it started, if my dad knew my mum was ill before—maybe before she’d admit it, or before I realised, or—it’s easier to think he was always like that. I know it sounds weird, but I think that would make him a better person somehow. If he was always like that, not just different when my mum got ill. I hid from him a lot, so I can’t say for sure. But I like to think it was that way, you know?

“The thing is, I must have known she was ill. I couldn’t be oblivious; I wasn’t in my room _all_ the time. But the thing is, when I wasn’t in my room, I was with my grandad. He was around more, but he seemed sad and I think he was protecting me from the truth. But I _must_ have known, because _why_ did I have the dream?

“But I did. Have the dream, that is. And I didn’t… I think I can admit to myself now that I didn’t know until that moment. I was in my bedroom, under the bed. I used to hide under the bed when I wrote poetry. Sometimes I could hide under there and my parents wouldn’t even realise, although my mum caught on eventually. She kept pretending not to know I was there, though. I could be difficult, and it was easier that way, I suppose.

“So I was under my bed, writing poetry. And then, from nowhere, something curled around my leg and tugged me out from underneath. I shrieked, taken completely by surprise, but even though it was dark and quiet in the house, and my door was open, no one came. No one was there to have pulled me out, either. My room was empty.

“There was this piece of string on the floor. It was black and thin and I thought for a moment it had just come loose from my school dress. But when I leaned down to pick it up, it seemed to grow up from the ground, and the more I followed it, the longer it grew. It kept unspooling, getting longer and longer, and I followed it out into the hallway. It wasn’t far to go to my parents’ bedroom, but it felt endless, following the string through their door—it was open too, which was unusual—until I was inside. It was dark, but I could see that the string was wrapped around my mum’s wrist. I reached for her hand to unwrap it, and that’s when I woke up.

“There was an ambulance outside. I thought it was for our neighbour, she was old and she’d had falls before. But it wasn’t.

“After that, my life was pretty different. I spent a lot of time in hospitals, and I was always careful not to fall asleep there because the dreams I had always gave me the impression of the tangles of old black thread inside the sowing kit my grandad kept in his cupboard, untouched, because it once belonged to his wife. My dad left, just walked out of the door one day without saying goodbye, and I got a lot of time off school because I kept crying and upsetting the other kids. It was good, I guess, because then I could take care of Mum. She needed me. I wanted to help her. I really wanted her to feel better.

“A lot of kids are scared of the dark. Or the monster under the bed. I don’t know, they’re clichés, but I didn’t get to be normal. What I was deeply afraid of, from the age of six, was death. It seemed to follow me, just out of reach, at the end of the loose pieces of string I would find around the house. I refused to do sowing projects at school. And things at home were… bad. My heart would race and my stomach would turn every time I had to knock on my mum’s door, in case this was the time I found her—well.

“And I was scared of dying, too. I started researching how long it would take to die of hunger when Mum stopped being able to cook for us and I was forgetting things, like what time it was or whether I’d had breakfast. Maybe I forgot them on purpose. I don’t know. I couldn’t remember the recipes my granddad taught me. It was easier to go to the shop and buy tins and ready meals. I was trying my best. But I was so scared. I kept thinking that I couldn’t get ill, too, because then who would take care of Mum? She was Catholic, so I prayed even though I didn’t believe in it myself. I prayed all night sometimes, just hoping for a sign I wouldn’t be next.

“I don’t know when things changed. Maybe it was when I dropped out of school. Maybe it was before that. I sort of realised that, yeah, death was scary, but so was living. I didn’t want to die. And sometimes, I didn’t want to live. It was more like I didn’t want to exist. I felt like my existence was a scam, like I wasn’t meant to be here at all, and that’s sort of true, isn’t it?

“I guess what happened was like Karolina Górka lying down inside the Tube carriage, or Joshua Gillespie putting the key in his freezer, or that dog walker just up and leaving the Spiral. I embraced the End. I came to terms with the inevitability of it, and I stopped being obsessed with when it would happen. It wasn’t something to look forward to, it wasn’t something to dread, it just was. Like everything else in my life, I had to put myself at its mercy and hope for the best. Maybe it was set in stone when I got invited to take part in genetic testing, to see if I was at risk of what Mum had, and I just… turned it down. Didn’t even reply to the letter.

“And so I just sort of kept going. I tried hard for my mum, I could give up on myself but not her, and I lied on my CV and did basically anything to get a job. I started working at the Magnus Institute. Things were good there, even though I was scared a lot of the time again. Some things are scarier than death, right? Like a boss who _definitely_ knows you don’t really have a Master’s in parapsychology. Or another boss who just thinks you’re an incompetent waste of space and, against your better judgement, you still have a hopeless crush on them. Not fun, but not like the constant terror of something you can’t escape. There were _some_ things I could do to ease that anxiety, like stay _well_ out of Elias’s way, or try to impress Jon in other ways, making tea and being nice and only letting the one dog into the Archives.

“I didn’t know it would catch up with me. That’s the thing. It’s not that I thought I’d escaped, just that it would no longer tease me before the actual end. I wasn’t expecting it, so it took me by surprise, and it was surprise after surprise after surprise that day already, to be honest. A bit much to keep up with, and maybe I was deliberately forgetting again. Or maybe—maybe that’s how my brain processes trauma? I’ve never really thought about that sort of thing before.

“The thing is, it always catches up with you. Death, that is. The End. It’s patient, but it’s _always there_. When I was down in the tunnels, separated from Jon and Tim, I knelt and picked up a piece string. I hadn’t seen anything like it since I started working at the Institute. It was different from the worms, black and thin and static, and I _picked it up_. And it kept going. Suddenly, I was following it again, down the long, twisting corridors, and all the way to Gertrude Robinson’s body. It was around her wrist. And she was dead.

“I probably should have realised when I was the only one who could lead the police to Gertrude’s body. They kept getting lost in the tunnels before they called me back down to help them. 

“Death had found me again. Or maybe, in the view of multitudes, I had found it. Both are true, I think. I didn’t have the words or the means to explain it at the time. I wanted it to be a dream. I wanted every time I’d followed that string to be a dream. But even dreams aren’t safe, are they? You’ll always find the End eventually, if you follow the string for long enough.”

Martin gasps. It’s like emerging from water after an extended period of immersion, deprived of air and light until he had almost become one with this truth, as if he was there in his memories and not here, in this café. He pulls his hand from Oliver’s and curls around it as if he’s been burned, trying to make himself smaller. Trying to hide from the excruciating observation of the Eye, but it is coming from somewhere too deep inside of himself to avoid.

“I’m sorry,” Oliver says softly.

“All this time, the End…” Martin shakes as he stares at Oliver. “I’m like you.”

Oliver shakes his head. “You’re not an Avatar of the End.”

“What? But—”

“There’s hostility between the End and the Eye, yes, but they can’t be separated completely. None of the fears can. You, the Archivist, exemplify that. Soon—if not already—you’ll been marked by _all_ the Entities. The End might have been the first, but it’s not the only one,” Oliver explains, “Being the Archivist—it’s something else entirely. Not an Avatar. More like… well, that’s where my knowledge ends, to be honest. Sorry, didn’t mean for that to be a pun or anything.”

“How can you know that?”

“The End gives us all a certain… inkling for inevitability.”

Martin remembers the feeling of something slotting into place when Elias appointed him to the position of Archivist. This is similar, but entirely of his own making. He feels like he has control over it. He feels like for the first time, he Knows something that might dig him out of this grave he’s built for himself with every move he’s made since the day Melanie put her knife in his shoulder. Since the day he stepped in front of her knife, with no real understanding of why.

“I think I understand,” Martin murmurs.

“Yeah? Glad I could help, I suppose.” Oliver offers him another smile. “Does it make it any easier?”

Martin feels himself shrink again. “I don’t know yet.”

“Martin, you should know… the End might seem kinder than the others fears, but it’s not above cruelty. It sought you out. It saw an opportunity to torment you until you were entirely its own, and it didn’t quite let you go even when it didn’t get what it wanted. But that’s not your fault.” Oliver’s hand twitches, like he wants to reach for Martin’s again. “You didn’t choose this. Remember what your grandfather taught you: your life is worthy because it’s yours.”

Martin swallows the unexpected ache in his throat. “Should you be saying that? You know, as an Avatar of the End?”

Oliver shrugs. “I don’t know the rules.”

“Do any of us?”

Oliver laughs. “Very true.”

“Thank you, Oliver,” Martin says sincerely, “Really, I—I’m grateful. Thank you.”

“It was nice talking to someone. Nice talking to you, I mean.” Oliver grins, shakes his head. “If you ever need more help, or just to chat or—yeah, I’ll leave you my card. Is that’s okay?”

“Yeah, sure. Yes. Thank you.”

Oliver slides a blank business card across the table towards Martin. His number is scrawled across the back in careful, deliberate digits. And then he stands, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his coat as if suddenly worried he might do something he regrets with them. “Take care, Martin. And don’t forget that—well, things rarely bite without a reason.”

Martin doesn’t have time to ask Oliver what he means. He’s already on his way towards the door.

The nice old lady who’d smiled at Martin when he came in wanders over to the table. Oliver must have finished his cake and coffee at some point during Martin’s statement, but the mug of tea has gone cold.

“You alright, love?” the lady asks kindly, even though Martin never smiled back at her. “That looked like a tough split. But don’t worry: plenty more fish in the sea.”

Martin thinks he does rather a good impression of a fish as she pats him on the shoulder and then walks away.

* * *

“ _If you see Mary again, tell her… No. I guess there’s not really anything else to say_.”

The tape clicks off. Jon stares at the whirring machine for a long, dragging moment. He can’t think of anything to say. At least, anything other than: “Fuck.”

“That was my reaction exactly,” Tim mumbles from where he’s bundled up in bed, wearing one of Georgie’s dressing gowns, the one with the cat ears, and wrapped like a chrysalis in the tie-die blanket.

“You’re meant to be resting,” Basira scolds, although gently, from where she’s leaning against the kitchen counter with a cup of coffee.

“I’m dreaming,” Tim says into his pillow, “You know I talk in my sleep.”

Basira rolls her eyes. But Jon can’t process the interaction from his seat at the camping table opposite Georgie and Melanie. There’s something sombre and tense about the way both of them are sitting, still staring at the tape recorder.

“So that was Eric Delano,” Jon murmurs, “Christ, all he wanted—he just wanted to protect his son.”

“Poor guy,” Georgie says. In her voice, there’s no hint of the anguish on her face. Jon supposes it comes from being a podcaster, but her vocal composure is almost unnerving in its untouchability.

“Gerry and Eric deserved better,” Tim huffs from his mattress.

“Right, that’s it. I’m coming over there.” Basira puts her coffee down on the counter and starts pacing across the room to Tim’s mattress. “Do you know how much effort we put into getting you to read the Loch Lomond statement when you were delirious and about three seconds away from death? I’m not letting you succumb to sleep deprivation.”

“I thought you were all being extra nice to me because you made me read a statement,” Tim complains.

Basira hovers over Tim’s mattress. “Yeah, that expired two days ago when you ate the last of the Pringles.”

“In my defence—”

“Your actions were undefendable.”

“Now, come on, Basira.”

“Go to sleep, Tim,” Daisy growls from her own cocoon on the mattress next to his.

“Ay, Daisy, didn’t realise you were awake!” Tim says, far too merrily. “Do you remember that game of I, Spy we played in the car on the way back from Epping Forest? Yeah, me neither.”

“Seeing as that was less than two weeks ago,” Daisy replies, “While you might not remember the car journey, I’m sure you recall what I nearly did to your colleague. Keep that in mind as you keep me awake for the _third night in a row_.”

“Ouch. Basira, are you going to let that slide?”

Basira looks unmoved as she sits down on her side of the mattress, next to Daisy’s nest of blankets. “I should think that’s incentive enough. Go. To. Sleep.”

“Fine. _Fine_. Goodnight everyone.” Tim rolls around exaggeratedly until he finds what appears to be a comfortable position, even if it looks anything but. He mumbles something unintelligible before his breathing evens out completely.

“Huh,” Basira says, “I think he’s actually asleep.”

“ _Finally_ ,” Daisy snaps, and then promptly falls asleep also.

Basira picks up her book and buries herself inside of it. Jon feels like he’s watching them through a glass screen, knowing he should be laughing or trying to join in or apologising once again to Tim for his part in the statement reading. But at the table, with Melanie and Georgie, something is _different_.

“Well, that’s the end of Plan A, I guess. We’ve listened to all the tapes Martin gave us,” Georgie says.

“That’s the last of them? You’re sure?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Melanie hisses.

Jon flinches. “Sorry. I’m sorry. It’s just—you weren’t very forthcoming with this one, which I _understand_ , I do. I really do.”

“I wish things ended better,” Georgie murmurs, “For Eric and Gerry.”

“Tim is right,” Jon admits, since the man in question is asleep, “They deserved better.”

“It’s not the worst thing that could possibly happen to a person, you know,” Melanie says firmly, “Losing your eyes, your vision, it’s… I mean, it’s not fun. But that’s just it: I’m blind. That’s my life now and that’s okay.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Georgie says, reaching for Melanie’s hand.

Melanie squeezes Georgie’s hand in her own. “I know.”

“It was very brave,” Jon tells her softly, “Braver than—than I could ever hope to be.”

Melanie’s lips twitch. “You’d never have done it.”

“No, probably not.” Jon looks down at the table. “Melanie… how _did_ you—?”

Georgie stands abruptly. The Admiral, who’d been dozing by her feet, jumps up with a yell. “There’s still washing up to do. I should…”

Georgie trails off and walks to the kitchen.

“I don’t really want to go into the details. I’m definitely not giving you a statement,” Melanie says, “Two traumatic surgeries in the space of a month was… not fun. Basira and—and Georgie, they helped. Georgie had to do most of it. The Eye, it didn’t like Basira getting involved.”

Jon’s eyes flicker to the kitchen, where Georgie has her back to them, diligently cleaning the plates from their dinner earlier that night. “Oh.”

“Yeah. It was rough.” Melanie reaches down for the Admiral, who meets her halfway and jumps into her lap. She buries her hands in his fur. “But I knew what I had to do. What I _wanted_ to do. I’ve spent so much time just wanting _out_ of that place, and here was the answer. It was going to hurt, I knew that, but not more than—not more than what had already been done to me. By Elias.”

There are so many things Jon wishes he could undo. “I’m so sorry, Melanie.”

“Don’t be sorry. Be angry.” Melanie’s lips finally manage to form a smile. “I know, I know. Not ‘I’ve been possessed by the Slaughter’ angry, but—yes, the bullet was bad, but it didn’t _make_ me angry. Anger is… for a very long time, anger’s been all I’ve had. For _years_. Maybe since—well, I don’t want to talk about that either. But everything I’ve done, everything I pushed for was because I was angry. Angry at being passed over, being disrespected, ignored. That sort of anger, it _powers_ you. As long as you don’t let it slip out and hurt someone… maybe it can be useful. I always sort of _liked_ it.”

“I didn’t—I didn’t realise…”

“Yeah.” Melanie kisses the Admiral’s head. “But if this is the price for—all of this, then I think I was right to pay it. I mean, I haven’t escaped fully. I still have to put up with you lot. But I think I’m okay.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“Eric Delano reminded me of my dad,” Melanie says quickly, quietly, “I think that helped me. To be brave. I’ve listened to that tape too many times. I used to pretend it was to help hype Tim up for finally doing it, but I don’t think he’ll ever follow through. I just—it’s nice to know the Eye didn’t get everyone, you know? Nice to know there was someone who could still care _that much_ after all of this.”

Jon inhales. “Yes, I—I think I know exactly what you mean.”

“We’ll get Martin back.” Melanie stands as brusquely as she speaks. “I’ll be in the bathroom. Need to be alone for a little while. Although I’m taking the Admiral with me, if anyone asks.”

“Of course.”

Jon watches her walk away. Through the door, he can just about make out the sound of Melanie climbing into the empty bathtub and cooing at the Admiral. He smiles, but he feels it fall off his face when he looks over at Georgie.

She’s still scrubbing the dishes. There’s nothing immediately obvious in the way she’s standing, and her ministrations are calm, methodical. But Jon can feel something is not quite right, an old instinct grown softer over time now that he knows what to do with it.

He stands, makes his way over to the kitchen loudly enough that she’ll hear but not so loud that it’s obvious what he’s doing.

“I’m sorry, Jon,” Georgie says into the water, her back still turned, “I know you thought there might be some sort of message in the tapes about Martin’s plan, but—I mean, it’s not a dead end. Those tapes saved you, and Melanie, and we still have time—”

“Georgie,” Jon murmurs, stopping next to her at the sink.

“I’m fine,” she insists, “I’m okay.”

“I didn’t say—”

“God, I—” she drops the plate into the sink and spins to face him. There are tears in her eyes, shimmering at the edge of her lashes, just about to fall. “I think you miss him so much it’s starting to spread to all of us.”

“Georgie.”

“Sorry. Sorry, that was mean.” She looks desperate, but Jon doesn’t know what for. She lifts her shoulder to her chin, catching a stray tear. “It’s just—you know when you say people’s names like that, all soft and kind, it’s really hard not just to dissolve into a puddle of tears? You’re too powerful, Jonathan Sims, and I really think you ought to stop using it for evil.”

He smiles. “But my nefarious masterplan has only just begun.”

Georgie abandons the bastion of resistance she’d been clinging to and throws herself towards Jon. He accepts her with a small grunt of surprise at the suddenness, putting his arms around her as she buries her face in his chest and cries.

“It was the right thing to do,” Georgie sobs, “But it was also—it was also the hardest. The hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

He lifts his hand to her hair, holds her close. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Not your fault.”

Jon wants to argue. Instead, he just holds her closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk i just love the idea of Oliver really liking Martin. like it's just a cute concept. they are both wholesome individuals and i genuinely think they'd get along. and the Web would definitely run a very successful matchmaking service if they wanted to use their power for love. Annabelle got a kick out of arranging the meeting on Valentine's Day ;))
> 
> next update is gonna be in a week, so next Thursday!! sorry for the delay and hope everyone has a wonderful week <3


	15. my voice: a beacon in the night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A break-in and a break through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER SPECIFIC CONTENT WARNINGS: the Lonely (Entity), the Extinction (Entity), manipulation, surveillance, the Eye (Entity), the Web (Entity), the End (Entity), disassociation, pandemic (mentioned briefly in the opening of a canon statement, MAG157), addiction, withdrawal, isolation, insomnia, paranoia (mentioned). 
> 
> Chapter title from "Winter Song" by Sara Bareilles and Ingrid Michaelson.

Martin Knows Elias is coming, not because of any helpful memo from the man himself, but because Rosie’s consciousness at the reception snaps shut as he walks past. It’s a disconcerting sensation, cutting through the Lonely’s ambient fog, and by the time Martin has pulled the protective shield of emptiness around him again, Elias is letting himself inside the office.

Peter hasn’t been around recently, which isn’t surprising. Not a people person by anyone’s standards, and he has spent the last week deep in the Archives, looking for any evidence about the Extinction they might have missed. Elias has simply spent his time _lingering_ , and Martin doesn’t know whether to be concerned or relieved he’s finally made some sort of move.

He forces himself to feel nothing, rearranging his notes from _another_ of Dekker’s Extinction statements as Elias draws the chair from the corner of the room to sit in front of Martin’s desk, crossing one leg over the other and clasping his hands on his raised knee.

“Elias,” Martin says eventually, trying to keep his displeasure out of his voice.

“Good afternoon, Martin,” Elias says, all sinister cheer, “How are things?”

“They’re… fine.” Martin looks Elias in the eyes, which is dangerous on a good day. And today is not a good day. But he doesn’t want anyone knowing that. “I wouldn’t want to spoil anything before the presentation next week.”

Elias chuckles. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry too much about that.”

Martin hums, returning to his notes. He can feel Elias _appraising_ him.

“I came down here because I was concerned you might be a bit shaken after your interaction with Oliver Banks.”

Martin sighs. “You know about that, then.”

“Yes, I’m trying to keep as close of an _eye_ on Annabelle Cane’s manipulations as possible,” Elias replies, “And this was one of them, I assume?”

“She set up the meeting.”

Elias tips his head slightly. “Was it illuminating?”

“I guess.” Martin tries to push as calm of a facade he puts aside his notes, looks at Elias like they are not having this conversation on a knife’s edge. “Did you know I was… _marked_ by the End, all this time?”

“As I’m sure Annabelle informed you, I assumed, at first, that you had been marked by the Web. You have an aptitude for deception and manipulation that I admit even I overlooked, despite the manner in which we met,” Elias tells him, drifting comfortably into what Martin has come to think of as his ‘monologue voice’, “I watched you, of course. It can be helpful to have those aligned with the Entities working for the Institute, but I had to be sure you weren’t sent by the Mother of Puppets for some nefarious purpose counter to my own.

“Alas, you were oddly difficult to keep track of. This did nothing to reassure me that you weren’t one of the Spider’s servants, sent to unravel my plans. As time went on, however, I began to suspect your untouchability was linked to another Entity the Eye has difficulty keeping track of. Knowing your upbringing, it was feasible you had, at some point, come into contact with the End.

“I was curious, which is why I transferred you to the Archives.” Elias’s grin returns in full force. “My suspicions were confirmed when you discovered Gertrude’s body. Needless to say, I was thrilled. Does it ease your mind to know your alignment with the End is why I chose you to be the reserve Archivist?”

“I am the Archivist,” Martin tells him, “I don’t care how I got here. All that matters is what I do now.”

Martin no longer has to put any thought into dulling his voice. It echoes and drifts away, like it hardly belongs to him, and he’s grateful to it in a way he knows is dangerous at the same time as he cannot bring himself to care.

Elias’s smile twists and sharpens. “And what will you do now, Martin?”

“Exactly what you’ve asked of me.”

“Very good.”

“If that’s everything,” Martin says, “I need to read this statement.”

“Ah, Dekker’s Klanxbüll statement. A false alarm, I think, although it should make for an energising read nonetheless.” Elias stands. “I’ll leave you to your work.”

Martin returns to the statement, expecting to look up in an hour without realising an hour had passed, and be so entirely alone there’s not even the echo of voices or footsteps or a ticking clock in the distance.

Instead, he feels Elias hesitating by the door, and looks up just as he asks: “You wouldn’t happen to know why I got a visit from the estate agent managing 105 Hilltop Road on the evening of Jared Hopworth’s impromptu surgery?”

“No clue,” Martin replies coolly, “Like you said, the Web plays its own game. Let’s hope it doesn’t get in the way of our plans.”

Elias’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t smile. “Quite.”

This time, when Martin takes the time to look, Elias has gone. He returns to the statement, loosing himself in the familiar motions of drinking a glass of water, clearing his throat, turning on the tape recorder, letting the introduction flow from him unconsciously: “ _Statement of Adelard Dekker_ , _regarding a potential pandemic originating in the town of Klanxbüll_ , _Germany_. _Original statement given 14 th August 2013. Audio recording by Martin Blackwood, the_—”

He’s pulled out of the gentle haze of the statement by a burst of squealing static. Martin clicks off the tape recorder, notices immediately that it turns itself back on, and doesn’t bother trying again before sighing: “Peter.”

“Sorry to interrupt,” Peter quips, “Has Elias been by yet? He said he wanted to speak with you.”

“Yeah, you just missed him.”

“Ah, perfect.” Peter peers over Martin’s shoulder and makes a perfunctory noise of satisfaction. “Glad to see you’re keeping up the momentum.”

“It’s not just Elias’s deadline I’m worried about. The end of the world—”

“Yes, yes, of course. The Extinction _is_ more worrying than Elias’s obsession with bureaucracy.”

“Obviously,” Martin says dryly, “Can’t have the world ending before you get another chance at bringing about the Forsaken.”

“Exactly! Glad we’re on the same page, Martin.”

“Why are you here, Peter?”

“Two weeks ago, when Jared Hopworth dropped by, I was alerted to a break-in on the same night. I had assumed someone outside of the Archives saw the Boneturner and reported it to the receptionist—what’s her name again?”

“Rosie.”

“Yes, Rosie, that’s it. I couldn’t be sure, however. My powers only extend so far, and I wanted to be thorough in case of a breech in security. I had the people in Artefact Storage do an inventory and it appears there _was_ a break-in,” Peter explains, “A table associated with the Web has gone missing.”

Martin tries—and fails—to quash his concern before Peter notices it. The table, the one that _Took_ Sasha, that Jon attempted to destroy with an axe, is as dangerous as its purpose has been elusive. They still don’t know fully what it is, or why it exists, only that it’s caused fatal problems before and probably will again.

This seems like one, in fact.

“Do you know who might have taken it?” Martin asks, forcing his voice to be neutral.

“Well, I assume the Mother of Puppets wanted it back. Beyond that, I can’t pretend to know what it is the Web wants.” Peter pauses, and Martin takes the opportunity to fiddle with the tape recorder as if checking its batteries are still functioning. “I want you to know, Martin, that I don’t _mind_ your connection with the other fears. That’s _understandable_. It’s your connection with the Eye, after all, that makes all of our research possible. But the Lonely _is_ worth your commitment. Your ability to bring our two patrons together is what will make all of our research worthwhile.”

“I know,” Martin tells him, “And like I promised you, if you hold up your end of the bargain, I’ll keep to mine.”

“Of course. I keep your friends safe—and isolated—and you pledge yourself to my patron in the name of stopping the Extinction. A fair exchange, I think.”

“Right. Now, I really should record this statement.”

“I’ll leave you to it.”

* * *

Jon can’t sleep without the statements.

It’s not the same as his old dependency. His mouth isn’t dry with desperation, there is nothing inside of him _reaching_ desperately for a statement on an incorporeal plane where he draws horror towards him like a magnet, and their lack doesn’t make him ill. Instead, it’s more like—well, he never had a blanket as a child, never sought out comfort physically, but he imagines this is close, and he’s sad rather than unwell in the absence of the tapes.

The most important part, he realises and promptly tries to burry in embarrassment, is that it’s not just any statement he desires. He’s not soothing himself towards sleep with the tragedy of Eric Delano’s afterlife, or Nathaniel Thorp’s dealings with death, or any other sick record of terror. No, the statements he listens to before bed are the stumbling, unsure additional notes Martin leaves at the end of his recordings. The softness of his voice, an echo of closeness and comfort despite the great and stretching distance between them.

“ _To anyone listening_ , _sorry about the change in tone_ ,” a younger Martin says into the tape recorder, and Jon drifts off to sleep thinking, _I’m listening, Martin. I’m listening_.

“ _It’s the not knowing, you know? I mean, Jon’s still alive. Not sure why, but I’m sure of that_ ,” Martin tells Melanie, and Jon buries his face into the Admiral’s fur and tries not to cry at the tender but certain curl of Martin’s voice around his name.

“ _I wish Jon kept better organised notes_ ,” Martin mumbles, and Jon’s soft laugh makes Tim stir, turn over with a mumble in his sleep without waking fully.

“ _He doesn’t need that kind of thing on his mind right now… I just hope he gets back soon_ ,” Martin sighs, and Jon thinks of how much has changed. How he’s on the other side now, and how he’ll never be sorry enough for the torture of unexplained distance that he subjected Martin to.

In the soft silence of the safehouse, filled with Tim’s snores, Georgie’s mumbling in her sleep, Jon clicks off the most recent tape and reaches unthinkingly for another. It’s too dark to see much, but he slots the tape into the machine and adjusts the old headphones that the Admiral sometimes mistakes for a toy, and presses the button down to begin the statement.

Instead of Martin’s voice, his own comes through the headphones: “ _Look, Tim, I’d love to discuss this further, but as you can see, I have a recording to do_.” Jon’s finger hovers for a moment over the button, determined to return to another statement, but then Tim’s voice makes him stop. There’s something light and cheerful in the way Tim talks that Jon hasn’t heard in a long time, not even in the safety and relative recovery offered by the safehouse.

Jon looks at the back of Tim’s head, a messy collection of curls splayed across the pillow and a few sicking to the staticky, tie-die blanket, and nearly chokes on the ache in his throat. He’s so _sorry_. And it will never be enough, because the Tim on this tape is gone. The Tim on this tape died in Yarmouth, if not a long time before, and nothing will bring him back.

“ _Oh, and here, in Miss Montauk’s statement about her father’s killings, you refer to case, um, 9220611 as case, um, 1106922. Oh, and don’t get me started on the other case numbers around the Hill Top hauntings, they’re a_ mess—”

Jon slams his thumb against the stop button. Of course. _Of course_. They’ve been looking at Martin’s tapes all wrong, considering the statements by themselves. And yes, some of the statements were intended as individual clues, a way to bring Jon back from the End and to free Melanie from the Eye. But they haven’t taken the time to look at them as a _whole_ , as a collection of numbers, as an archive.

As a code.

Jon rolls off the mattress and stumbles to the table in the middle of the room. They’ve been storing the bag with the tapes under the sofa—the _ridiculous_ Bag for Life with a sentient snowman grinning on one side and a similarly deranged reindeer on the other, and Jon really regrets the hour of his life wasted on listening to Tim explain the plot of _Frozen_. The old, pretentious part of himself won’t let him find it funny as he tips the tapes onto the table.

He flinches at the clatter the tapes make upon contact with the table, but no one else wakes up except the Admiral, who begins circling Jon’s feet with the same manifestation of discontent and excitement Jon himself feels.

And Jon loses himself in research.

It’s been so long since this sort of delirious focus has gripped him, taken him by the throat and refused to let him go. The camping table soon proves to be too small for the ambitious code he’s trying to draw out of the tapes, and so he moves to the floor, where he arranges and rearranges each one over and over again according to patterns he can see and feel but not explain, not yet. There is something here. There _has to be something here_.

By the time the clock reads six a.m., he thinks he’s found it.

Basira gets up, makes coffee, and it’s only when she’s walked across the room to sit at the table that she notices Jon kneeling on the floor, surrounded by tapes. They circle and stretch away from him like a great, burning sun, but there’s a method to the madness. A _pattern_.

“Everything alright?” Basira asks, mug of coffee still in hand.

“I’ve figured it out,” Jon says in a breathless rush, “The tapes—Martin, he—it’s a message. He _was_ sending us a message, after all.”

Basira places down her coffee. “I’ll wake up the others.”

Basira has varying levels of success stirring the others into some semblance of wakefulness. Tim and Daisy, once again descending into withdrawal, clamber out of bed only to fall asleep again in a pile of limbs and blankets on the sofa while the others rouse themselves.

Georgie sits at the table and squints at Jon’s research. She looks sleepy behind her glasses, and with an impressive bedhead. “Did you spend the night making a crop circle from tapes?”

Melanie cradles the Admiral, lingering behind Georgie’s chair. “I’m kind of scared to ask one of you to describe it?”

Jon stands in the middle of his creation. Martin’s code. “I’ve arranged the tapes into a circle according to the fourteen fears or Entities. It’s like a wheel, but—but not smooth, because there are a different number of tapes according to each Entity, so it has—well, I suppose it has spokes, but they’re inverted. Is this making sense?”

“Not sure. Keep going.”

“I’ve also been connecting the Entities that have formed alliances or, alternatively, have proven to be—but that’s not the point, not right now. Because the cases, when arranged like this, when you consider their case numbers in relation to how many tapes there are within a category of fear…” Jon takes a deep breath, but he’s sure about this, he’s _so sure_. “It’s a code. And arranged like this, it gives _coordinates_.”

He holds up the pad of paper he’s been scribbling on furiously, not sure what he intends to do with it, since he can’t explain his reasoning any further than this. All he knows is he’s spent the last hour circling the same collection of numbers over and over again, with a deep certainty that he’d cracked the code.

Basira takes the pad from him and stares at his frantic notes. Tim pokes his head over the back of the sofa, looking as exhausted as he does confused.

“Um, I know I’ve been mostly asleep for your explanation,” Tim says, “But I’ve known you a pretty long time, Jon. And no offense, but more times than not, when you have these—no sleep research sessions, they tend to churn up nonsense that doesn’t really hold up in the light of day.”

“And it’s _maths_ , Jon,” Georgie adds despairingly, looking like she might cry, “No good comes from doing maths on zero sleep.”

“There might have been very little mathematics involved in my degree, but I think I’ve proven I can solve—”

“There was _no_ maths involving in your degree, and that time you tutored Max doesn’t count as—”

“Wait, what is your degree actually in, Jon?” Tim interjects. “Did you ever tell us?”

“Philosophy and Theology,” Georgie answers.

Jon glares. “Georgie.”

“Seriously, Jon, _why_ were you keeping that a secret?” Georgie asks.

“Paranoia hangover, maybe?” Tim offers from the sofa. “Although you remember that time we went out for drinks and I just sort of info-dumped about this one module I did at uni? Yeah, I was scared to ask you what you studied after that because I was _sure_ you’d told me and I was just too drunk to remember.”

Jon sighs. Loudly. “For god’s sake, can both of you just—?”

“Jon’s right,” Basira announces, cutting through their conversation, “Your working is nonsensical, but these _are_ coordinates. And I know where for.”

They all turn to stare at her. Basira is looking between the notepad and Jon’s arrangement of tapes, silently contemplating something she doesn’t seem ready to share.

“Well, _where_ , Basira?” Melanie says, a little frantically, into the dragging silence.

“The tunnels,” Basira replies, “I know it doesn’t make sense, but—well, does _anything_ make sense anymore? But I think I can get Helen to take us here.”

“Martin,” Jon says. He doesn’t know why. Maybe he just needs to breathe life into that name, to _know_ deeply and truly that he isn’t lost to them. “Martin must have left us something in the tunnels beneath the Institute.”

“Alright, don’t get your hopes up. Just…” Basira takes a deep breath. “I’ll check out the coordinates. This is a promising lead.”

“I’m coming with you,” Jon says.

“No. You need to _stay here_.”

Jon stands his ground. “Basira, I’m not—I won’t stay here, not while Martin—”

“It’s not safe.”

“I don’t care.”

“ _Jon_.”

“You know I’ll only follow you if you leave me behind,” Jon insists, “I think you’ve got plenty of evidence to prove that statement.”

Basira exhales through her nose. “Really?”

“I’m not saying behind.”

“Fine,” Basira snaps, “But no running off, okay? You stick with me.”

“Agreed.”

“Can I come with—?”

“No, Tim,” Basira and Jon say in unison.

“The rest of you need to keep laying low,” Basira adds, “Just do what you usually do. Stay here, be careful, keep watch.”

“Alright. Alright, I’ll—do you need anything?” Georgie asks. “Some breakfast before you go—or, I don’t know, anything else? Tea? A packed lunch?”

“We’re alright, Georgie. Thank you.” Jon gives her a small smile. “You can go back to bed if you want.”

“Oh, thank _god_ ,” Georgie groans before slouching across the room and throwing herself back down on the mattress.

“Wait for me,” Melanie mumbles. She carries the Admiral over to their shared mattress and inserts herself next to Georgie, who doesn’t open her eyes but easily pulls Melanie into her arms before the both of them fall back to sleep.

“I’m just gonna chill here,” Tim says, giving Jon and Basira a thumbs up over the back of the sofa, “Not because Daisy’s fallen asleep on me and I’m terrified of waking her up. Nope, not at all.”

Basira smirks. “Right. That’s believable.”

“Have you ever known me to tell a lie?” Tim asks, the picture of innocence.

“I’m not answering that.” Basira lifts the remote control from the camping table and flicks the television on. She searches through the channels, ignoring Tim’s demands to put teleshopping on because he finds it soothing, before landing on an early-morning reshowing of _Buffy The Vampire Slayer_. “There. Watch that and keep quiet.”

Tim settles back down, seemingly content with Basira’s choice. “Thanks, Basira.”

Basira rolls her eyes. “They really are all like children.”

“Ready to go?” Jon asks.

“Yeah. Yes, I just—Jon, have you….?”

Jon frowns. “What is it?”

“Have you ever heard of Jeremy Bentham’s theory of the panopticon?”

“Yes, I’ve studied the original text, as well as the Foucauldian—”

“Right, silly question. Georgie _just_ said you studied Philosophy at uni.”

“Why do you ask?”

Basira looks at the circle of tapes, with Jon standing in the middle. “It’s just something about the way you arranged the tapes makes me think of—no, it doesn’t matter. I’m seeing a pattern where there isn’t any.”

“Basira—”

“Come on,” she cuts him off, “Let’s get going.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry about the slight delay in posting this chapter!! my laptop needed to be repaired and it took a little longer than expected, but it's good as new now, which means i can write again :)))) 
> 
> a few notes:  
> 1) is it canon that Jon studied history at university? i've seen this a lot, but can't remember it being mentioned in canon and when i was looking through the courses you can do at oxford, philosophy and theology seemed like something Jon might vibe with? idk just thought it would be a subject that interested him and also fits with a pathway to the Institute in some regards  
> 2) i’m so sorry but i know nothing about maths and, like georgie, would cry if required to try and make sense of it. i don’t know how martin’s code works. it just... does? i hope?  
> 3) i'm gonna be posting a little less regularly so i don't push too far into my buffer--i'm still 6 chapters ahead at this point (with 8 left to write), but i'm about to start my master's degree so life is getting pretty busy!! i'm gonna be posting weekly from now on, which i think will keep me on an even keel to finish the fic without any big delays 
> 
> TL;DR i'm moving to weekly updates, so every Friday!!!! hope you all have a wonderful week <3


	16. watch out, you might get what you’re after

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of the end of the Archives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER SPECIFIC CONTENT WARNINGS: the Lonely (Entity), the Extinction (Entity), isolation, manipulation, grooming, threatening physical/bodily harm, banishment and imprisonment (of the eldritch variety), mentioned canonical character deaths (Gertrude, Sasha, partially Jon in the Unknowing), the Eye (Entity), surveillance, scopophobia, ommetaphobia, blood, the Desolation (Entity), burning, fire, arson, suicidal ideation, mentions of the apocalypse and apocalyptic imagery.
> 
> Chapter title from "Burning Down the House" by Talking Heads.

“Needless to say, I’ve been looking forward to this all month,” Elias preens from behind his desk, looking far too pleased with himself for a Monday morning, “And you did not disappoint. I’m impressed by the amount of academic vigour you’ve put into your work on the Extinction, considering neither of you come from a research background. It really is admirable.”

If not for the numbing company of the Lonely, Martin really thinks he would be at his breaking point. Today marks their final presentation to Elias on the Extinction. And somehow, he has managed to weather Peter’s Lonely quirks, Adelard Dekker’s one-man crusade to get Gertrude to believe in the Extinction, and put together a pretty decent attempt at bringing Elias up to speed on their six months of research into the emergent fifteenth entity. All that’s left now are Elias’s post-presentation questions.

Which is going to be the hardest part.

Something has been building. Martin Knows this meeting is a tipping point, a moment of change, but he meets a wall of glass when he tries to push towards the core of that knowledge. What does Elias want from them? What does Elias want from his Archivist?

Martin is so close to the truth. Too close. And yet, in this moment, he’s not convinced it won’t all go horribly wrong. All he has to do is not let Elias into his mind, put up the same wall Elias himself wields every time Martin pushes too far in return, and withstand the severing of what he’s come to consider normal over the last half of a year.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but from what I understand, the Extinction is an active iteration of the End. It might destroy itself during its own entry into the world. On the other hand, it might be successful in creating a new world devoid of life or even featuring some sort of replacement for humanity that can, over time, likewise fear its own annihilation in order to create a constant cycle of terror,” Elias elaborates, “Am I getting this right?”

“Yes,” Peter replies, “That is the extent of our knowledge so far.”

“What I’m not so sure I understand, Peter, is that you’ve always been something of a gambler. And the higher the stakes, the better,” Elias continues with a small, sly smile, “What is so different about the Extinction?”

“You know why,” Peter tells him, “Annihilation is antithetical to my plans, and to yours. If the Extinction manifests, the other fears will be obsolete.”

“Indeed,” Elias muses, “If the Extinction is allowed to manifest, life itself may be made anew with things that can only fear their own annihilation. Smirke’s fourteen will cease to exist in such a scenario, I imagine?”

“Precisely.”

“Interesting.” Elias leans back in his chair. “So your proposal is to dedicate the resources of the Magnus Institute to preventing the Extinction’s birth, as it were?”

“If such a thing is possible,” Peter agrees, “At the very least, we should strive to weaken it, bring it to the level of the other fears.”

Elias’s lips twitch. “Still so bitter over the failure of your dear Forsaken ritual, aren’t we?”

Peter scowls. “This isn’t about _revenge_.”

“Of course not.” Elias does not sound like he believes this, however, and Martin feels himself tense as the eyes in the room turn on him. “Martin, how does the end of the world as we know it make _you_ feel?”

Martin straightens his spine, puts steel into his voice. “I believe you have plans for me that make the Extinction’s threat redundant.”

Elias picks up a fountain pen from his desk, turns it over and over in his fingers like an hourglass as he scrutinises Martin. “Is that so?”

“I’m not afraid of the end of the world,” Martin adds, fixing his gaze on Elias, “There is no one left in this world that I want to save.”

Elias blinks. He chuckles, at first, a small and surprised sound that evolves into a laugh that is equal parts ironic and cruel. “Would you look at that, Peter. Your protégé is closer to the Lonely than even you seem to be these days.”

“An alliance between the Eye and the Lonely is the only way to see into the heart of the Extinction and understand its purpose,” Peter interrupts, “Martin knows this, hence his connection with the Lonely. I’m surprised by your surprise, Elias.”

“Maybe so. But there’s a fine line between pledging to the Lonely in order to prevent the end of the world, and going so deep as to lose all connection with the world you had intended to save.” Elias stands, rounds the desk. He leans against one edge, his arms crossed, and smiles slowly. “I have a proposition. A test of your resolve, as it were.”

“If this is another bet—”

“I wasn’t talking to you, Peter,” Elias says. His eyes find Martin’s again. “Martin, send Peter into the Lonely.”

“Elias—”

“ _Permanently_ ,” Elias adds.

Peter sighs. A low, deep sigh, spiked with anger. “I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this so soon.”

Elias clicks his tongue. “Don’t do anything rash, Peter.”

There’s a familiar squeal of static, pulsating and pitching a tone higher than usual, as if tinged with desperation. When the static fades, Peter is holding out his hand to Martin, offering him the hilt of a knife. “Kill him, Martin.”

Elias laughs again. “You can try, by all means, Martin.”

“Don’t let him distract you,” Peter snaps.

“Martin,” Elias says slowly, “You know what needs to be done. Send Peter to the Lonely. It’s where he belongs, after all.”

Martin stands in the middle of the room, quite literally in the middle of Elias and Peter. He’s bargained and borrowed and begged his way to this moment, and yet none of it has prepared him for the sheer enormity of what he knows he has to do.

He takes the knife.

“Do it, Martin,” Peter pushes, “We’re the same, you and I. We don’t need anyone else. Watching from a distance, that’s always who you’ve been. Haven’t you enjoyed it these last few months? You won’t regret your pledge to the Lonely. I promise.”

“You’re right,” Martin says. His voice echoes. “I won’t regret it.”

Martin pulls the familiar fog of the Lonely around him like a care-worn, well-loved coat. Like a suit of armour. It echoes and pops with the distant rattle of static, but something about it is closer to the empty whir of a tape recorder, the breathless hunger of a statement about to begin. Inside of himself, Martin feels the void grow and grow and grow, a numbness that encases all of him—like a web, like a fire—so that there is nothing but the fog, the lifeless fog.

He is the Lonely, and the Lonely is him.

When the song of the fog reaches its crescendo, and Martin’s body can no longer contain it, he looks Peter in the eyes and _pushes_ it towards him.

It’s quicker than Martin was expecting. He watches Peter simply blink from existence the way he used to after their brief and far from illuminating conversations. But this time, it’s different. This time, Martin is sending him to a point of no return, a void from which there is no coming back. He is forcing Peter into the depths of the Lonely and locking the door behind him.

And he feels nothing. Nothing at all.

“Very good, Martin,” Elias says with a grin, “I’m impressed.”

“All this time, you never had any intention of stopping the Extinction,” Martin murmurs. It’s been true for a long time, and Martin has known it, and not cared for the futility. Too many acts seem futile, these days, to resent a single task for such a thing.

“Of course not. The Extinction _may_ be the fifteenth entity, and if it _is_ emerging as Dekker theorised, then I imagine you are marked deeply enough by it from all the statements you’ve been consuming.” Elias returns to the other side of his desk, taking a seat like it’s a throne. Watcher’s Crown, Martin thinks, and he sees himself walking the tightrope of truth. This is it. “Sit down, Martin.”

Martin sits. “I know more than you think.”

Elias quirks an eyebrow. “Do share.”

“We both know a single Entity cannot succeed in fully realising their ritual. Not without help. Not without bringing the other Entities with them,” Martin explains.

“And how did you come by this knowledge?”

“Gertrude never really made a move to stop the Dark’s ritual. I checked. Thoroughly. Even destroyed the Dark Sun in the process, which I think is exactly what you wanted. You killed her because she realised the truth: there cannot be a single ritual. The fears are tied together. If you want to bring one into the world, you have to take the rest, too.”

“I presume Annabelle told you this,” Elias says, a sour note in his voice.

“No. Annabelle confirmed a theory I’ve had for a while.” Martin soothes his heart with the song of the Lonely, until it beats slowly, in time with his methodical, linear logic. “You were always insisting Jon needed to _experience things for himself_. Never told any of us why. Maybe it was to make him a servant of the Eye, his power growing with every statement he took, until he was in the position to complete the Watcher’s Crown. But you already tried that, didn’t you?”

“Well, well, well,” Elias smirks, “Annabelle really has educated you.”

“So it’s true,” Martin whispers, trying not to trip over the words, trying not to lose the control he’s wrapping around himself again and again, a repetitive spiral of the Lonely, “You’re him. Jonah Magnus.”

“Yes.” Elias grins. “Pleased to re-meet you, Archivist.”

“What do you want from me?” Martin demands.

“I should think you already know that, too. You were so keen to continue Jon’s work, at first. So sure the noble pursuit of preventing the rituals was the purpose of the Archivist. I watched that determination fade, even as you continued to destroy and defy the fears. I was sure your apathy was simply the effect of the Lonely. Peter really did get to you, after all. But perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps you’ll surprise me again.”

“You need the Archivist to complete your ritual,” Martin says, “To bring all of the Entities into this world.”

“Yes.”

“You pushed Jon—and then me—into the path of every Entity. You needed us—you needed _me_ to be _marked_ by them. All of them.”

Elias—Jonah—grins. “Well _done_ , Martin.”

“You want me to attempt another ritual. The final ritual.”

“Exactly. It became clear to me, after Gertrude’s work was done, that a new ritual must be devised to bring through _all_ the Powers at once. All fourteen, as I had hoped I could complete it before any new powers such as the Extinction were able to fully emerge. All under the Eye’s auspices, of course. We mustn’t forget our roots. And you, of course, are the linchpin: the Archivist.”

“ _Tell me what that means_ ,” Martin pushes, with all of his powers of compulsion.

And for the first time, his words don’t meet a wall. Elias grins, and leans forward across the desk, and Jonah Magnus’s statement frees itself from his vessel: “The thing about the Archivist is that—well, it’s a bit of a misnomer. It might, perhaps, be better named: the Archive.

“Because you do _not_ administer and preserve the records of fear, Martin. You _are_ a record of fear, both in mind as you walk once again through each statement, and in body as the Powers each leave their mark upon you. You are a living chronicle of terror.

“You want to know what I want from _you_? What I wanted from your predecessor? You are correct: I believed, if I could find an Archivist and have each Power mark them, have them confront each one and each in turn instil in them a powerful and acute fear for their life, they could be turned into a conduit for the coming of my nightmare kingdom.

“You’ve never seen yourself as a Chosen One, Martin. Not even when I made you the Archivist all those months ago. Not when Peter tried to entice you to the Lonely with the promise that you were the only one who could prevent the Extinction. He tried to make you the hero, and that never sat right with you, did it? And you’re right. How ironic it is, that in this world of would-be occult dynasties and ageless monsters, the Chosen One is simply that: someone I chose. It’s not in your blood, or your soul, or your _destiny_. It’s just in your own, rotten luck.

“Of course, you weren’t my _first_ choice. While your initial mark remained somewhat elusive, Jon came to me already marked by the Web. I even held out some small hope he had been sent by the Spider as an implicit blessing on the whole project. I decided I no longer needed to monitor you so closely for any indication of allegiance to the Mother of Puppets, and quickly installed Jon as the Archivist after Gertrude’s disappearance.

“Still, I was curious about you. I knew you would dedicate yourself to following Jon into danger. You might hate it, might have tried so very hard to reject it, but you have always been a caretaker, Martin. I knew you would not be able to resist dedicating yourself to the Archives, no matter how much Jon pushed you away.

“It’s become _very_ clear to me that transferring you to the Archives was the right decision. Look how far you’ve come. Certainly much further than Sasha, and Tim, and even Jon. So how did you come to _be_ the Archives?

“At first, I had to bide my time, get a measure of Jon before I began to push, learn how he worked. I decided to wait until something came for him, and see how he would react. Attacks upon the Archives were not uncommon during Gertrude’s tenure and, while she was always prepared, I made sure Jon would not be.

“But Jane Prentiss came for _you_. That was unexpected. You beat Jon to your second mark, and that is when I started to take notice of you again. For all that you might have been marked already, I wasn’t sure you could survive another encounter with the Powers, let alone make it through all fourteen. I reasoned that Jon was still better suited to the role, but I began to consider you as a reserve. After all, if Gertrude taught me anything, it was to be prepared for all eventualities.

“And then you found Gertrude’s body during Jane Prentiss’s second siege. Never mind that you had survived the Corruption _twice_ , but you proved to be the only person who could navigate the tunnels and lead the police to Gertrude’s body. This particular detail might have been lost on you amongst all the confusion and fear, but I never forgot. Because it became evident to me, at that moment, who had marked you first: the End.

“I had been _very_ worried about trying to arrange Jon’s confrontation with death. If I tried too early, Jon would just _die_. Too late, and he might be powerful enough to see the attempt coming, and maybe even understand _why_. My worries were confirmed when I sent him to Great Yarmouth to stop the Unknowing. He died a very human death in that Museum, only to be revived by the diligence of the medical staff and an unexpected alliance with the End that I believe you orchestrated. I allowed you to set into motion Jon’s return from Terminus’s realm to test your resolve, to eliminate all doubt about your first encounter and to sever the peculiar distraction of your feelings towards Jon. Your first patron has served you well, and myself by extension. I never had to risk of exposing you to the End; you had already survived its touch.

“But I’m getting ahead of myself.

“Jon had acquitted himself well enough against the Corruption, and his lack of self-preservation was, ironically, a useful tool. I decided to continue his development. His place in the Archives has always been driven by a _need_ for knowledge that came long before his time at the Institute, that has perhaps always been with him. You were simply a follower, not thirsty for knowledge but connection. That served me well, too, since I knew I could rely on you to accumulate your own marks alongside Jon’s. It was a race, I suppose, although my bet was on Jon.

“The discovery that one of the Stranger’s minions had infiltrated the Institute in the aftermath of Jane Prentiss’s siege was certainly a pleasant bonus. You never descended into the same state of paranoia as Jon, but you _did_ spend nearly a year trying desperately to maintain a friendship with the Stranger that pretended to be Sasha. You made it tea, you asked about its wellbeing, you mourned for it when you thought it had been lost in Jon’s flight from the Institute. And you took the news of what happened to the real Sasha very hard. My surveillance extends far, and I know how you grieved for the memory of her in what you thought was the safety of your own home.

“And so you acquired your third mark.

“Then, while the Distortion took a direct interest in the original Sasha and, by extension, Jon, you stumbled across it quite by accident. How long _did_ you spend in its corridors with Tim? A duration of time that you’ll never be able to quantify, but not to worry: it left its mark.

“Jon was getting ahead of you in the race, at this point. I had to improvise when Jurgen Leitner made a surprise reappearance. He could have derailed everything if he told Jon too much too fast, so I made what was rather a rash move. Still, it led Jon to his encounters with Detective Tonner and Jude Perry, who served their purposes exactly as I had hoped, as did our dearly departed Mr Crew. Jon was marked now by the Hunt, the Desolation and the Vast, while you lagged behind.

“Nonetheless, in Jon’s absence, I decided you weren’t entirely a lost cause. I encouraged you to read the statements, which you did. You were diligent and dedicated. In fact, you took to them rather well. You were already _very_ connected with the Eye, what with you long employment at the Institute, but your performance during Jon’s exile consolidated your mark.

“And then I sent Jon to the Unknowing, thinking he was ready. Your little plan to try and put me in prison in the meantime really _was_ a surprise, but imagine my glee when you ruined it all on your own. What _did_ compel you to step in front of Melanie’s knife? It doesn’t matter now, I suppose. I had nothing to do with Melanie and her adventures with the Slaughter, but when I saw the situation, I made sure to trap her here, knowing her rage would bubble over one day. I just didn’t expect _you_ to be at the receiving end.

“In the wake of the Unknowing, and with Jon far too close to the End for comfort, I had to improvise again. I realised a new opportunity had presented itself, to make _you_ into the Archives. You had some catching up to do. To begin with, I bought Peter on board as a distraction. I believed that diverting your attention to the Extinction would keep you in the dark, if you’ll forgive the pun, until it was too late. It also served the purpose of introducing you to the Lonely, which I always suspected you would form a _special_ bond with. I didn’t need to do anything to your friends, wherever they are, since you abandoned them all on your own. You don’t even want to save the world they live in, after all.

“I suspected the coffin might turn up again, and once it did, it was simply a matter of giving you the tools to lure you in—and out. Detective Tonner has been _invaluable_ through this whole process. No matter how far you’ve drifted, you still cannot shake the desire to _help._ And Simon Fairchild’s visit was illuminating: it pushed you closer to Peter’s project, while exposing you to the Vast and enticing you towards the Buried. I was very pleased when you descended into the Coffin. Even more pleased when you made it out alive.

“And, of course, I knew the Dark Sun was just sitting there waiting. Imagine how pleased I was when Annabelle Cane’s visit not only gave you a true and explicit mark of the Web, but pushed you towards Ny-Ålesund as well. The Mother of Puppets appears to have fully condoned my plans, after all.

“Then there was the Hunt. I bided my time with this one. I knew your friends would be looking for you, even if they knew exactly where you resided _physically_. Imagine what pressure that must put on an agent of the Hunt: to resist looking no matter how much your blood stirs and sings with the desire to _give_ _chase_. Detective Tonner snapped, as expected, and the moment I felt her presence in London again, I sent you home and straight into her trap.

“You passed with flying colours, once again, and your injury by the Detective’s bullet was simply another means to an end. It provided me with the perfect excuse to extract Jared Hopworth from the Spiral’s corridors and set him to work on you. I dare say the removal of two ribs, which now _belong_ to the Flesh, is enough to leave a mark much deeper than the scar the Boneturner gave you.

“I know you have been scheming, Martin. Looking for a way out, allowing yourself to be underestimated. But I have learned my lesson there. And as you gave yourself over more and more to the Lonely, it became clear to me that even if you _did_ learn of my plans, you wouldn’t care. You have drifted too far. You mastered the Forsaken so well, you even overpowered Peter Lukas. There is nothing left for you in this world. You have nothing left but this. Nothing you want to take or have or be, except that which I will make you: _the Archives_.

“So while I have enjoyed our little trip down memory lane, I’m getting impatient. The point is, Martin, you are almost are ready. You are _marked_ by all of the Powers but the Desolation. The power of the Ceaseless Watcher flows through you, and the time of our victory is almost here. And you won’t lift a finger to stop me. In fact, I think you’ll quite like the world we’re going to make. Together.”

Martin drinks in the power of Jonah Magnus’s statement. Bathes in it, like blood. It’s _everything_. So much power, he can hardly contain it, and his body buzzes with desire, pulling him towards this destiny that has been carved for him. He is ready. He _is_.

But.

But he has planned for this. Put down his anchor, ready to weather the storm, and he’s not going to let it overwhelm him now, when he is so close to a clear horizon.

“What would you have me do now?” Martin asks slowly, carefully, obediently.

“All that’s left for you to master is the Desolation,” Elias—Jonah, he can think it now, it’s safe to know this—tells him, “It shouldn’t be hard to arrange. Jude Perry enjoyed marking Jon the first time, I’m sure she won’t mind doing the honours again. Contact her for a statement. And then we can set our ritual into motion, at last.”

Martin nods. Stands. “I’m ready. I _will_ open the door when the time comes.”

Jonah grins. “Very good.”

Martin moves towards the door.

“Don’t dally,” Jonah calls after him, “With Peter gone, there are no other obstacles but this. Make sure to orchestrate your encounter with Jude Perry _soon_.”

Martin reaches for the door handle. It’s hot already, burning hot, pressing and peeling into the skin of his palm. Just like it should be. He smiles, just as the Institute’s fire alarm begins to scream.

Martin turns towards Jonah. “I think she’s already here.”

The fire suppression system kills the Institute’s fluorescent lights, and into the darkness spills red bursts of the blaring alarms and the green buzz of the beckoning escape routes. Jonah’s eyes burn as the lights flash and flicker, curling around his irises until his eyes look multiple and incandescent. From the safety of his chair, Jonah _watches_ Martin, half of his face pitching in and out of comprehension in turn with the alternating lights.

“Careful, Martin,” Jonah says, his voice cutting easily through the scream of the alarm, “One of us has played their hand too soon, and I can assure you it isn’t me.”

“What hand do I have to play?” Martin turns fully away from the door to face Jonah again. He wonders if his own eyes are glaring green. “I’m your Archivist, and soon I’ll _be_ the Archives. Isn’t it symbolic, to watch the old Archives burn as I become them? I think my final mark should be _significant_.”

Jonah still stares, still sits and waits.

“I thought you were impatient for the ritual to begin,” Martin continues, “Take me to the Panopticon.”

“What are you _doing_?” Jonah growls.

“Offering you everything you’ve ever wanted. Make me the Archives. _Use me_. All of your planning, all those years of waiting and watching—aren’t you ready for it to _mean something_? While the old Archives burn, a new one rises from the ashes, and our nightmare kingdom blinks into existence.”

Jonah stands. He puts his hand on Elias’s desk, rounds the table slowly even as he keeps his fingers tented and fixed on the same, single point. There’s a threat in his movement, the sense of predator weighing up prey, and Martin wonders briefly if Jonah would risk lashing out at him in anger even now, with the ritual only moments away.

“ _Why now_?” Jonah asks.

“You made me the Archivist on your terms. I think it’s only fair that I become the Archives on my own.”

Jonah’s lips curl in loathing, but Martin doesn’t think it’s for him. He thinks Jonah despairs of his own uncertainty. “You have nothing left but this, then: ending the world with fire and insolence?”

Martin smiles emptily. “Seemed fitting.”

“You truly have no one left to save?”

“No.”

“And no agenda but an end that remedies all the years of your following, your servitude, your _compliance_?”

“You can choose to look at it that way, if you want.” Martin laughs, but it’s just as echoing and alone as his smile. “Maybe I just like fire.”

“If you betray me,” Jonah says, rounding the table fully until he’s standing so close that Martin can smell the coffee on his breath, feel the full and consuming pressure of his Watch, “You will _hurt_. A pain beyond anything you can imagine. You know there are places worse than death; you know there are fates so cruel no statement can save you.”

Martin stares into Jonah’s eyes, green and growing in volume. “Take me to the Panopticon. I’m ready.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am so sorry about this cliffhanger. please know i truly mean it when i tagged angst with a happy ending (as in, i just finished a chapter for this fic that is so tonally different that it was very strange editing this one). also Peter is not gone here the way he's Gone in canon so interpret that however you desire 👀
> 
> somehow, i feel like the biggest moment of canon divergence in this fic so far is the fact that i've used a lot of Elias's MAG160 statement without the "hello, jon" part. like that's such a big meme in the fandom. this U is becoming even more A by the chapter lmao. 
> 
> hope you all have a lovely week!! i'll update next Friday <3


	17. i grew up here, until it all went up in flames

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Statement of Martin Blackwood on his intentions as the new Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute. Direct from subject, 27th August 2017.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER SPECIFIC CONTENT WARNINGS: suicidal ideation, grief/loss, isolation, mentions of religion, depersonalisation, the Lonely (Entity), death and dying, the End (Entity), discussions/depictions of major character injury (linked to the Unknowing), burns, explosions, hospitals, dreams, the Stranger (Entity), mentioned canonical character death (Danny), the Eye (Entity), scopophobia, ommetaphobia, food/feeding allegory in relation to taking statements, the Desolation (Entity), manipulation, bargaining, swearing.
> 
> Chapter title from "Garden Song" by Phoebe Bridgers.

The tape clicks on.

“So, um… s-statement of… statement of Martin Blackwood. Just Martin Blackwood. On his… his intentions as the new Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute. Taken direct from subject, 27th August 2017.

“Where do I start? Well, it’s my birthday. No, that’s—I didn’t mean to start there. But for context, it’s my birthday, and I’m in the tunnels beneath the Institute. Alone. What a way to turn thirty. At least, down here, I am… I’m still me. And I think I want to do this whole year again. The last two years again, if I could. I don’t know if it would change anything, if I’d still end up here. 

“Here being… here being _hell_. No, no, that’s wrong. I’m not religious, Mum is but I’m _not_ , and this isn’t—I’m not dead. Sometimes… sometimes, it feels like I’m the only one who’s. Not. Dead. And I hate it. I hate it here.

“Sorry. Sorry, it’s just, in the tunnels, I can feel _everything_. And it’s a lot. I’ve been using the Lonely to keep Elias out of my head. Peter’s been teaching me how. And I’m trying not to lose myself to it, I’m really trying, but it… it just seems easier sometimes. Nothing hurts when I—no. It doesn’t get to follow me down here. The tunnels are safe for now, and there’s something I need to tell you before it all changes again and I—I can’t contact you. Not after this.

“I really hope you find this. I really hope you’re listening, Tim. Because I need you to know I’m sorry. For what I’m about to do. If you see Jon again, and I hope you will, maybe you could play him this tape, too. Or just tell him the summary, which is: I’m sorry.

“I’m so sorry.

“Tim, you are—you’re about to die. You’re not _going_ to die, that’s the _point_ , I’m _not_ letting it happen. But you’re really on the edge. You and Jon. I don’t know why it worked out the way it did. I mean, maybe I could Know, but that… well, I think that would make it worse. What I do know is, Jon is brain dead but his body is sort of okay. As okay as it can be, considering a building came down on him and all that. His heart is still beating, and that’s progress from when they found him, but that doesn’t make someone _alive._ They think he hit his head at some point, which means it—it probably didn’t hurt. That’s meant to be comforting, isn’t it?

“It’s not. It’s really, really _not_. And, god, Tim, you—you’re not brain dead, which is good news, I guess, but you really got the brunt of the burns from the explosion and that’s going to kill you. The doctors know it. I’ve _Seen_ them discussing it. They’re sorry, but there’s nothing else they can do for you.

“There is something I can do, though.

“I’m going through all the tapes about the End, about death, looking for _something_ for Jon. But I already know who can help you, Tim. Don’t need a tape to know who’s in their element with burns and destruction and all the things I’m _terrified_ of. Or used to be terrified of. I’m not sure. It’s not going to be… you won’t like it. They’re not _nice_. But who is, anymore? 

“I’m about to meet Jude Perry. I don’t know if it’s a statement she’ll give me or a scar. Or both. Or something else entirely. She might just kill me, boil me from the inside out and—and _shit_. Shit, I can’t go there. I have to do this. Because I don’t want you to die, Tim. And I don’t think you want to die either.

“Oh, I should probably explain that part, shouldn’t I? Because before Yarmouth, maybe it wasn’t true. And I’d have to accept that, I suppose, even if it—well, it was horrible. It was _not nice_ to see you like that. But you’ve… you’ve been in my dreams, now that I’m the Archivist and you’re sort of detached from the Institute. Coma logic. Not sure how it works, just that it’s—you pop up from time to time, when I’m asleep, and I hope you don’t remember. I wish I could let you not remember, too, it would be kinder. But you deserve to know why I’m doing this, and it’s not just because I want you back.

“You gave your statement to me. I’m sorry. God, I keep saying that, but I _need_ you to know. If I could go back, I think that’s one of the things I would change, just so we don’t keep getting stuck in that _nightmare_. I’m in the audience, in amongst the stone statues, watching the… performance. I can’t see myself, but I think I have too many eyes. I can see too many things. I _feed_ off it, as much as I hate myself for it, as much as I wish… god, I just wish things were different.

“The Stranger takes Danny. Over and over and over again, you have to relive it, and I’m in the audience drinking in your terror, and neither of us can stand it anymore. You talk to me. No one else talks to me, but you do. At first, you were just angry. I don’t think you thought it was me, not really. Which is… I can’t escape what I’ve become. What I’m becoming. A monster, you called me, and you’re right. I deserve that. It’s true.

“Then it turned to begging. You asked me to make it stop. I can’t talk to you, too. I don’t know why, but I… no, I do know why. It’s because I’m listening, drinking, _feeding_. It’s because I have eyes in my mouth. I have eyes inside of me, everywhere, and they blink awake during the dreams to take it all in. I’m the Archivist, I delight in it all, in the cruel spectator sport that is—

“No. _No_. Not down here. I’m still Martin. At least, I hope I am. Martin Blackwood. I don’t… heh, I don’t actually have a middle name. All those years, you tried to get me to tell you what it was. I just thought it sounded cool. Martin _K_ Blackwood. K for Keats, K for Kowalska, K for nothing. Right, that’s… that’s useless information, I know. A waste of tape. But I’m back. It got me back, so… yeah.

“You kept speaking to me, even though I couldn’t speak back. The begging turned to acceptance. For a while, you just stood there: legs shaking but not moving, watching it all happen. For what it’s worth, I don’t think you could have moved either. I don’t think you could have stopped it. I think you were starting to realise that, too. All those years of looking for someone to blame, but it really is just one bad day. And you didn’t deserve it. You really didn’t. No one does.

“Just once, you asked me if I could bring you back. Not push you forward, on, into whatever happens after the End. That’s what I expected, but you never asked for that. You only asked for _back_ , to whatever waited. The dream changed, but I remembered you when I woke up. I remembered what you asked.

“So I’m going to see Jude Perry. I’ll record it on this tape, if she lets me. I don’t know _why_ the tapes want to hear everything, but I don’t think Elias can somehow listen to them if he doesn’t actually have them in his possession. It’s a risk, but I’m willing to take it. Because you deserve to know. And I think, at this point, Elias would have at least of made some passive aggressive dig at my poetry if he hears _everything_ on the tapes. So, yeah, there’s that.

“Don’t… this isn’t the end. Of the tape. Or of—of you. God, that’s—that’s stupid. But anyway, please keep listening, because there’s still some things I need to tell you after I’m done with Jude.

“Statement ends, I suppose. For now.”

The tape clicks, but the silence doesn’t feel absolute. They’re all sitting or standing around the table, where the radio rests, turning the tape, unspooling the story inside, until it spills form the speakers. Just as the tape clicks again, and a second recording threatens to begin, Georgie reaches across and presses down on the stop button.

“ _Don’t_ ,” Jon snaps, anger rising up in him so suddenly he has nowhere to put it but into his words.

“Look at you, Jon. Look at you both,” Georgie implores him, her eyes wide, scared—scared for him? Jon is so lost in the statement, in a way that’s eerily familiar but still not quite the same, that it’s a monumental effort to _look_.

But he does look. And across the table from him, Tim is staring at the radio in such pale, abject, consuming horror that Jon barely stifles the instinct to run from whatever it is that’s threatening them. Fight or flight. But then he understands. This statement, it’s Tim’s return from the dead, it’s Martin’s descent into isolation, it’s a testament to the impossibility of Jon’s continued existence. All he wants, when he understands that, is to hold on to Tim and not let go.

There are tears on Tim’s cheeks. Jon thinks they’ve been there for a while, although that’s not stopping new ones from joining in. Slowly, he raises his eyes to meet Jon’s. Opens and closes his mouth, again and again, choking on words he can’t find.

“I don’t,” Tim manages at last, “I don’t—I didn’t remember.”

“Play the next tape,” Jon demands.

“You need a break,” Basira says, her voice so soft, like she might break them both with the slightest hint of force.

“The tape isn’t going anywhere,” Daisy adds, with a hint of a protective promise, like she’ll defend this remnant of hope with her last breath.

“I have to _know_ ,” Jon snarls.

“Not like this. You don’t have to torture yourself with this knowledge.”

“Jon’s right,” Tim says, his voice thick and shaking, “Play it. Please.”

“Georgie,” Jon begs, when no one presses play. He doesn’t know why he can’t do it himself, but he… he just _can’t_.

Georgie moves towards the radio, ready to turn it on again, but her hand hesitates by the button. She stops. Turns towards Jon. Wraps her arms around him, leans in close, even though Jon cannot return the contact.

“Remember that he loves you,” Georgie says. She looks between Jon and Tim, her arms still around the former. “He loves you both, and he’s alive. We’re all alive, and we’re going to get him back.”

“Play it,” Jon murmurs.

Georgie clicks the tape back on. The gentle hum of a coffee shop fills the audio for a moment, before a familiar voice cuts through the chatter and clatter.

“You know, this is where I met the last one. Did he give you the recommendation?” Jude asks with a mocking chuckle. “He didn’t shake my hand either. At least, not at first.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Martin replies, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Jude laughs again. “You’re different. Not better, just different.”

“I’m the Archivist now.” Martin’s voice is steady, clear, determined. “And I have a request. Not a question, not a statement. I’m not going to force anything out of you. What I’m offering is for our mutual benefit, in the long run.”

“Alright, then. To what, exactly, do I owe the pleasure, the _honour_ , of being graced by the presence of the great and powerful Archivist?”

Martin doesn’t say anything. The sound of the coffee shop continues to bleed from the speakers, painfully mundane. Someone laughs. The coffee machine grinds loudly. The ice cubes inside a glass rattle as it’s placed down on a table, or perhaps someone stirs it.

“I’m ready to be _blown away_ by this very unexpected alliance you’re proposing between my god and yours,” Jude presses on, “Not that the Eye and the Lightless Flame haven’t been allies before, but… well, that didn’t turn out so well, in the end.”

“I have a friend…”

“Good for you,” Jude smirks.

Martin takes a deep breath, seems to steel himself. “I have a friend who’s been—it wasn’t the doing of your god, but it’s close. Mindless destruction. His body is being ravaged by burns. By… desolation. Not _the_ Desolation, just—he’s going to die.”

Through the tape, Jude’s frown is almost palpable. “You invited me here to tell me _that_? I really don’t care.”

“I think I could make you care. _Not_ like that,” Martin rushes to add, “Not like that. No compulsion, just a bargain. A fair bargain.”

“Yeah, right. There’s no fair bargains in our world, Archivist.”

“I have two offers. One— _payment_ , I suppose, up front. The other for… services rendered.”

“Get on with it.”

“The reason I think you accepted my invitation. What bought you here last time. If you agree to hear me out, I’ll give you every tape, every statement, every file the Magnus Institute has on Agnes Montague,” Martin offers, “She won’t be one of our stories anymore. She’ll be yours, and you can do with that what you want.”

There’s another long pause. In the background, someone is moaning that their coffee just won’t cool down, even though they’ve been in the shop for over an hour. They’re considering complaining to the barrister.

“If that’s the upfront payment, then what’s the services rendered?” Jude demands.

“I want you to heal my friend. Bring him back from the… desolation.”

Jude laughs, a loud, bodily laugh. “Yeah, right.”

“I’ll make it worth your while.”

“If I say it’s not within my power to bring someone back from something like that?”

“I wouldn’t believe you.”

“I don’t know if anyone’s explained it to you yet, but the Desolation isn’t about healing, repairing, whatever—that’s the _opposite_ of what we do. That doesn’t please my god.”

“I know a way you can release the energy, the wrongness, of healing.”

“Where the _hell_ is this going?”

“If you heal my friend,” Martin says slowly, “I’ll let you burn the Magnus Institute to the ground.”

“You’re joking.”

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

“No,” Jude says, her voice dropping in volume, “Actually, you don’t. An Archivist who wants to destroy his own Archives. Ha. You sure you’re not one of us?”

“I’m sure.”

“You’re missing out.”

“Will you do it?”

“I’m _thinking_ about it.”

“Alright. Alright, I… sorry.”

“I don’t want to know why,” Jude says abruptly, “But I’m doing it. Burning that place down. And if I have to… help your friend to get that opportunity, so be it.”

“Thank you, Jude,” Martin breathes.

“Will you shake my hand now?” There’s a curl of a smile at the end of the question.

“I’ll shake your hand among the ashes of the Institute.”

“Good answer. Who’s this friend, then?”

The tape clicks, stumbles, but Georgie doesn’t stop it this time. The coffee shop disappears, just drops off a cliff into silence, and Jon is almost jarred by the loss of its gentle ambience. People, places, it’s been a while since he’s been around them and it’s taken distance to realise he actually liked them. In moderation. The silence of the tunnels, because that’s the only place Martin could have recorded the next part of his statement, is terrible and encompassing and _wrong_.

“Hi. Me again. Martin. So… that’s the plan. The rest of it was just me telling her which ward to go to and all that. Don’t worry, I didn’t shake her hand. Haven’t shaken it yet, at least. I did mean it, when I said I’d shake her hand among the ashes of the Institute. I’m sort of looking forward to watching it burn.

“Tim, I know you hate all of this, think any connection to the entities is being complicit in the suffering they cause, but please understand that I—well, I didn’t have to do it. But I needed to. _Wanted_ to. If there was another way… but there’s not.

“I bet you’re wondering, _another_ plan involving arson? _Really_? Especially since the last one went a bit wrong. But I have my reasons, and I’m going to explain them the best I can right now, before I get in too deep.

“I think I know what Elias wants with me, what he wanted with Jon and maybe even Gertrude. We’re… personifications of the Archives, right? We’re allied with the Eye, but that means we can take on some of the other Entities through statements. Maybe all of them. We record and observe fear, not just from our own patron but from the others, too. That’s my working theory. And I really hope it does work because everything is kind of resting on it.

“You cracked the code I made from the tapes, if you’re listening to this. And I hope that means you have Jon back, too, because I kind of based that code on the book of puzzles he gave me for Secret Santa that first year. Trying to wean me off poetry, maybe? Or still very concerned by my C in GCSE maths, as if that’s relevant in an _archive_? I’m just saying that to annoy him. I _know_ archiving is a multi-disciplinary job and—god, Jon, I really hope you’re listening to this. I miss talking to you. Talking to the tape records is _almost_ like talking to you. But it’s not the same.

“Right, that’s embarrassing. Moving _swiftly_ on, I should explain what’s happening. I’m going to become the Institute, whatever that means. I’m still figuring that part out, but I’ve got a while until the date I gave Jude to collect her reward on. So I’ve got time. I hope. But what I’m saying is, I think if I can transfer all of the Archive’s power _me_ , maybe I can—de-evil it? Is that a word? Weaken it, at least, and free the people who’ve been tied to it for too long.

“I mean, Elias is basically a two-hundred-year-old man trapped in the body of a middle-aged bureaucrat. He didn’t really think those contracts he had us all sign through. He wrote them himself, which was the big mistake. It’s ironic really, when you think about it. We’re always talking about statements, _talking_ being the key word, but the Eye cares about written words, too. And that’s what I hope is going to get you out of this: you committed yourselves to the Institute as a building, a place, a physical monument to the Eye. When I become—whatever I’m going to become, I think you’ll be free from the contract. It won’t _fit_ anymore.

“I think maybe I can be a conduit, put all of that energy and evil—because you’re right, Tim, it _is_ evil—somewhere that it can be balanced out and neutralised. Smirke built the Panopticon of Millbank Prison for that purpose: to bring the Entities into balance. I’m going to try and fix them there, keep them… subdued. That’s the plan.

“I don’t know what happens next. I don’t know if I come back from the Panopticon. I’m… I’m okay with that. I’ve accepted it. I’m not a hero, not the Chosen One. I’m just unlucky, I guess. One bad day and all that. I’m starting to think that _the_ one bad day was the day I accepted a job at the Institute. I should have known then it wasn’t going to end well. But I’m going to change my luck even if it kills me. That’s not a new feeling. I’ve lived like that for a while, and I’ll… I’ll probably die like that.

“There’s… _so_ _much_ I never got to tell you. I can only hope that you know. Please just _know_. I can’t put any more of myself onto this tape. I’ll think I’ll lose myself if I do. I just… I’m sorry. I’m sorry it has to end like this. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s pathetic, I know it is. Pathetic last words. But those are my last words as me, I think. The last time I get to be just Martin Blackwood. So… I’m sorry.

“Statement ends.”

There’s nothing left on the tape. It drones for a while before stopping, a teasing click that leers, asks if they want to start again, listen to it all over. Jon stares, lost and despondent, at the radio. He knows, distantly, that he’s crying, too. Crying in front of all of them. And he doesn’t care, not anymore.

“What a stupid fucking—no. _No_ ,” Tim says, his voice breaking apart even as he tries to air his anger, “We’re not letting him do that.”

“Obviously not,” Melanie agrees, “He’s absolutely _lost it_.”

“I think it might work,” Basira murmurs.

“ _What_?” Tim snaps. “Are you _serious_?”

Basira looks him dead in the eyes. “You know Smirke’s architecture better than anyone, Tim. Tell me that it doesn’t make sense: a Panopticon that _contains_ the fears through the Eye, keeps them under control through the threat of constant observation. It could work.”

“That doesn’t _matter_. Are you really saying you’d let Martin _die_ on the off chance that this _fucking ridiculous_ plan might work?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Tim,” Georgie says, “It’s okay. Just… take a moment, alright? We’re on your side.”

“I’m not sure _Basira_ is.”

“I’m trying to think of a way we can make this _work_. Get Martin back _and_ stop the Entities from spawning,” Basira tells him, “A compromise.”

Tim scoffs in furious disbelief. “A _compromise_? You’ve _got_ to be kidding me. Jon, say something, for fuck’s sake!”

“What do you want me to _do_?” Jon snaps “I can’t—Christ, I can’t _think_. I need…”

“Nope. Now’s _not_ the time to take up smoking again.”

“We need to get him out of there,” Jon says desperately, “We’ll think of a plan when he’s here. When he’s _safe_.”

Basira takes a deep breath. “Okay. I think we all need a moment.”

“That sounds like a good idea,” Georgie agrees gently.

“We’re not leaving him behind. We’re not sacrificing him,” Basira says, “I promise, okay? That’s _not_ what I’m saying.”

Jon drags his hand over his face, digs his fingers into his eyes to try and carve out the tears still lingering there. He hates himself for crying. For a sharp, selfish moment, he hates Martin for making him cry. But it’s not Martin, not really. It’s the gaping absence inside of him, it’s all the things he should have said. It’s not what he did; it’s what he didn’t do.

It’s always what he _didn’t do_.

He’s startled out of these thoughts by the buzzing of Basira’s burner phone.

“Who’s that?” Daisy asks slowly, cautiously, as if the phone might burst into flames.

Basira glances at the screen. Sighs. “It’s Rosie.”

“ _Rosie_?” Tim echoes, caught between disbelief and the incandescent rage that’s been consuming him since the end of Martin’s statement.

“She’s been keeping me updated,” Basira admits.

“I thought we agreed to keep Tim’s friends out of this whole debacle,” Georgie says.

“ _You_ did,” Basira replies, “It was already… a bit late by then. I tested the waters, realised you guys weren’t gonna be onboard with it, and then I kept it to myself.”

“ _Basira_.”

“She _wants_ to help, okay? And I need to take this, because she never calls me. Something’s up.”

Georgie flinches. “Jesus. Fine. Just—maybe tell her to delete your number or something? You know, after this call.”

Basira gives Georgie a look, but says nothing as she picks up Rosie’s call. There’s a brief exchange, so quiet Jon can’t hear what Rosie is saying to Basira. He can’t read Basira’s facial expression during the call either, which is perhaps more unnerving than the lack of clear audio coming from the phone.

Basira hangs up. Slides the phone into her pocket. Looks at them all in turn. “The Institute is burning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> birthday boy Martin doesn't yet know how close he is to the truth when he says "Elias is basically a two-hundred-year-old man trapped in the body of a middle-aged bureaucrat". i am cruel. i PROMISE Martin will get the love and comfort he deserves..... soon.
> 
> next update Friday, have a great week everyone!!!! thank you so much for reading, commenting and leaving kudos <3


	18. burning down the walls to light up the front door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a ritual is attempted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER-SPECIFIC CONTENT WARNINGS: fire, burning, choking, the Desolation (Entity), the Lonely (Entity), grief/loss, introspection related to death and dying, intended/attempted self-sacrifice, suicidal ideation, abandonment, the Eye (Entity), scopophobia, ommetaphobia, body horror, implied/referenced eye trauma and removal, mentions of care home and hospitalisation, canonical character death (Martin's mother), mentions of the apocalypse, blood, restraint, imprisonment, the Web (Entity), spiders, arachnophobia, manipulation, threat, physical violence, withdrawal, the Spiral (Entity), swearing, guns, gunshot wounds. 
> 
> all i can say is... this chapter isn't as bad as it sounds?? but please please do let me know if you have any questions or would rather just read a summary!!!!! <3
> 
> Chapter title from "Jailbird" by Shells.

The Magnus Institute burns bright, and long, and fully.

The flames curl and lick at Martin’s ankles in cackling competition with the Lonely’s fog. All he can hear is the repetitive, pulsing cry of the fire alarm and his own heart pounding in his ears as he follows Jonah down, down, down to the core of the Institute’s power. If there is hope inside of him, it’s for the absence of people and sound and screams to mean Rosie did as he asked— _begged_ —and evacuated, quietly and deliberately, while Jonah was distracted by the presentation.

Martin feels it when the fire reaches the Archives. With each statement that burns, the paper and tape and plastic consumed hungrily by the Desolation’s flames, he _becomes_. It’s a rising phoenix of a process, a painful accumulating of the Archives inside of himself, and he grows heavier and heavier with each fragment of knowledge whose corporeal form turns to ashes while he absorbs its ethereal presence. He can hardly see or breathe or think, choking on smoke, on _Knowing_ , as they walk.

Jonah is calm. He still looks just like Elias: an expensive, tailored suit clinging to the haughty lines of his shoulders, the pretentious lift of his chin, the straight-spine stroll of a man sure he’s in control, sure he’s leading. Elias has always been tall, not quite as tall as Martin but Martin still always got the impression of him looming. How much of that feeling was Jonah’s doing? Martin wonders if there’s a statement somewhere given by the real Elias and, if it burns, whether he’ll understand _why_ Jonah chose him.

It’s sad, he thinks, to lose your life to a power beyond your control and understanding. It’s sad, to be snatched away by something so impossible to plan for, to insulate yourself against. And then Martin realises what he’s doing, where he’s going. For the first time, he thinks, he’s sorry for himself. For what he’s losing. His heart breaks, and it’s for himself, for the things he won’t do or see or be.

They’ve reached the Panopticon.

Martin has seen plans, diagrams, blueprints, but nothing could have prepared him for the sheer _scale_ of Smirke’s design come to life. It’s a gaping, sunken hole of a place tucked so deeply beneath the Institute that Martin can no longer hear the warning blasts of the alarm system. Arranged in a circle around the central watchtower, there are cells upon cells stacked atop one another. But for all that it stretches and towers upwards, at the ground level, there are fourteen doors of twisted metal bars that afford no privacy from the Ceaseless Watcher, although the cells—for now—are empty.

In the very centre stands a cylindrical tower. Martin can see where the stone begins and ends, but there’s a ghostly shadow to it, as if it could stretch all the way to the sky and become infinite. At the top, a viewing platform stares in all directions, the window panes sharp and oval like open, empty eyes. From here, Martin can see a twisted throne within, built from what looks like black and green-shot marble. But there is something fluid and pulsating about the throne, and Martin sees eyes rolling, blinking, _watching_ from where they are buried and bound inside the stone monument to their patron.

Martin Knows, with a burst of static, that these eyes are the ones Jonah removed from his vessels in order to insert his own. The real Elias’s eyes are in there somewhere.

And sitting atop the throne, with two empty sockets scraped clean of the eyes that sit in Elias’s stolen face, is Jonah Magnus’s body.

“The Panopticon of Millbank Prison,” Jonah announces pridefully, “Not quite how Smirke originally conceived of it, of course. I made my own adjustments. From that tower, you can see _everything_. The seat—the _crown_ —of the Beholding’s power.”

“And there you are,” Martin murmurs, “Sitting, watching. Binding it all together.”

Jonah smiles. “Precisely. Peter would have had you replace me—both Lonely and Watching, guarding against the advent of the Extinction—but I have different plans for you, Archivist. Follow me.”

Above, the Archives are almost ash. Martin can hardly lift his feet as he follows Elias through the dead space between the cells and the watchtower, through the arching doorway to the start of the spiral staircase inside. It reminds Martin of entering a helter skelter, of the Blackpool Tower, of silly and inconsequential things that make him suddenly nostalgic for a proper goodbye.

He was never allowed those, was he? His father just got in their car and drove away, not even remembering to pick up the spare key kept in the junk drawer alongside hairbands and loose plasters and letters about hospital appointments. Martin still has that useless spare somewhere, still clicks it sometimes and wonders if he’ll hear the familiar _yip_ of that ugly maroon estate. Wonders if he’d get in the car, if it opened, and let his father drive him away somewhere.

Jon and Tim left him behind. And it might have been Martin’s plan, but he couldn’t help thinking that: they were leaving him behind. Not because they were going to Yarmouth, not because they were going to stop the Unknowing without him, but because they weren’t coming back to the place Martin was forced to stay. He stood outside the Institute, watching the hired van drive away, stood there even when it was long gone. He didn’t visit either of them in the hospital. He put everything onto a tape he still isn’t sure they’ve found, heard, _listened_ to.

His mother was in that sterile, sharp-smelling care home. Hand sanitiser and air freshener always used to linger in the air, especially in the waiting area, where Martin spent most of his time. She never wanted to see him, not even at the end. The not-goodbye was a phone call in the middle of the night, from a sympathetic but detached nurse who informed him gently that he was an orphan.

And now Martin is bowing out, too, without any words for those he leaves behind. Like his father, he doesn’t know where he’s going, doesn’t care what he’s leaving behind. Like Jon and Tim, he’s going somewhere the people he loves cannot follow in the name of sacrifice. Like his mother, he’s all alone, and glad for it.

They’ve reached the top of the watchtower. Martin is almost on his knees, almost crawling under the pressing weight of the Archives. They must be nearly gone, the knowledge and _terror_ stored within him now—written into the layers of his skin, carved into bone, tainting and twisting every cell. He _is_ the Archives.

The throne writhes, liquid black-green marble roiling with stolen eyes that watch Jonah and Martin’s every move. Beneath the curling, interlocking windows that look always outwards, an incarnation has been chipped into the internal stone walls of the watchtower, taunting and circling: _You who watch and know and_ —

“Read it, Archivist,” Jonah says, “The final statement. Read it for all the world to hear.”

“And then what?”

“And then the world ends—and you alongside it. I will swap this vessel for yours, and take my place watching over my kingdom of terror in the body of the Archivist, the _Archives_ , where I _belong_.”

There’s a burst of pressure behind Jonah’s words, and Martin’s knees finally collapse beneath him. His palms hit the floor of the watchtower, made from the same writhing marble as Jonah Magnus’s throne, and almost sink into the liquid darkness. The green vines cutting through the stone lance around Martin’s fingers, cling to his wrists, start to warp and weft up his arms.

The Archives are dead. Long live the Archives. Martin has become. He _is_ a store for all the terror that has ever been, will be, can be, should be, wants to be.

“ _You who watch and know and understand none_.” Martin’s voice deepens and echoes around the words, until they bounce back at him from the prison walls. “ _You who listen and hear and will not comprehend. You who wait and wait and drink in all that is not yours by right._ ”

The vines are around Martin’s throat now, and he chokes on blood as he forces the next words out: “ _Come to us in your wholeness. Come to us in your perfection. Bring all that is fear and all that is terror and all that is the awful dread that crawls and chokes and blinds and falls and twists and leaves and hides and weaves and burns and hunts and rips and leads and dies_! _Come to us. I_ —”

Blood spills over Martin’s lips. He closes his eyes, pushes his head down as the green vines and liquid stone try to close around him, curl him into the heaving mass that supports Jonah Magnus’s body. He is the next vessel. The next body Jonah will put his eyes into. The _final_ body, because who else will be left? The world is ending. The world is ending.

The world isn’t going to end. Not today. Not by his hand.

He remembers the goodbyes he never got to give.

He thinks of Jon’s memory of a poem’s end: _To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield._

He does not read the rest of the inscription.

“ _I hold you in this place that watches and waits and keeps and takes. You may come whole, you may come perfect, but here you remain. Leave, and you will shatter. Leave, and you will be forever flawed. You are observed. You are seen. You are beholden. I_ —” Martin pulls the last of his strength around him. He smiles at Jonah with bloodied teeth. “ _I **close** the_—”

There’s a burst of light, like a flare against the darkest of skies. Like the first firework, sending a jolt of shock through the crowd even when they’ve been holding their breath in anticipation. For a brilliant moment, Martin thinks he’s done it, thinks he’s channelled the fears into imprisonment. This is his end, his transition from life to death.

And then there’s hand in his hair, pulling his head from the ground, from the enticing abyss of the Eye’s throne like an overflowing cup of tar and green lightning. A scream of fury echoes from the spiral staircase below, bouncing around and up towards them, and Martin remembers the promise he made Jude Perry, but not on tape. He promised her Elias. Jonah. The beating heart of the Institute.

She is here to collect her reward.

_Not yet, not yet_ , Martin thinks desperately.

Jonah has his hands on either side of Martin’s head, his fingernails digging into Martin’s scalp as he directs his eyes to the rest of the inscription. “Read it. _Read. It._ ”

“ _I_ ,” Martin pants, “ _I **close** the_—”

“ _No_!” Jonah roars. “Repeat after me: _I **open** the door_.”

Martin laughs. Blood rakes up his throat, pools in his mouth, drips down his chin. He wonders if it was this painful when the real Elias succumbed to being Jonah’s vessel. “No. No, I don’t think I do.”

There’s a roar of fire from the door that opens into the observation room. Jude Perry is cloaked in flames as she bursts inside, her skin molten and rippling but never detaching itself from her bones, like a match lit on fire but never burning down to the end. Jonah falls away from Martin, lifts his hands to his eyes in an attempt to shield them.

“Wait,” Martin cries, “Wait, please, Jude, not yet. Not—”

But Jude’s attention is not on Jonah. Her burning eyes find Martin’s. “You _lied_ to me, Archivist.”

Martin rises shakily to his knees, tries to hold his hands out in protection, in placation. “You can have him. You can have him when I—”

“When you finish _binding_ us,” Jude snarls, “You and your stupid Eye, _god_ , you make me sick! Lording it over everybody like you own the place? You’re just _leeches_. Voyeurs. Parasites on the _real_ monsters.”

“Elias is the one you—”

“ _This_ pathetic thing?” Jude gestures with a fire-bright hand to where Jonah is trying to crawl towards the door, away from the fire. “You’ve outgrown him, Archivist. So I think you’ll find it’s _you_ I need to destroy now.”

Jonah pulls himself up against the wall next to the door. He’s just visible over Jude’s shoulder. “Kill her, Archivist.”

“I’m not going to kill you, Jude,” Martin says slowly, “We had a deal, remember?”

“Yeah, no, I don’t think I’m sticking to _that_ ,” Jude snaps, “Since you failed to mention you were going to _damn_ us all!”

Martin feels the cold hand on his shoulder a moment before the familiar voice echoes around the watchtower, momentarily silencing the hiss of the flames: “So overcome with the desire to burn and destroy that you couldn’t see through the Archivist’s deception. Then again, I suppose foresight is where _we_ excel at your expense.”

Jude’s lips curl in disdain. “Annabelle.”

Annabelle’s hand tightens on Martin’s shoulder as she steps around him, stopping to his right, barely a foot in front of where he still kneels. “Jude.”

“I’ll kill you, too,” Jude threatens.

Annabelle chuckles. “You can _try_.”

Jude smiles. She flicks her wrist, twirling her finger in an arch until a blast of fire lights the space between where she stands and Martin kneels. Martin shrinks back, waiting for the flare of pain against his face, thinking in a burst of fatalistic awareness about how he’ll miss his freckles when she burns them off.

But the fire doesn’t make contact. He eases his eyes open just in time to see a shield of webs standing in front of him, Jude’s flames burning away its spidering patterns but in such a way that dissipates the heat and energy before it can reach Martin.

“I’m not here for you, Jude,” Annabelle says calmly, “I’m not even here for the Archivist. You can have him, as long as you let me take Jonah Magnus off your hands.”

Jude’s lips curl when she looks at the corpse sitting upon the Watcher’s Throne. “Which one?”

“Him,” Annabelle replies, nodding over Jude’s shoulder at where Jonah cowers in Elias’s body, “It’s in the eyes, you see.”

Jude smiles slowly, piece by piece, and then steps to the side in a sudden snap of motion. Jonah reacts a moment too late, turning to run down the stairs just as Annabelle brushes past Jude and darts after him. There’s something unsettling about Annabelle’s speed as she flies towards the door; she seems many-limbed and scuttling, her shadow in Jude’s fire possessing too many arms and legs, before she disappears into the echoing staircase.

“In the eyes,” Jude says contemplatively, “That’s something to work with.”

Martin scampers backwards, until his back meets the stone interior of the watchtower. He thinks he can feel the word _wait_ where it is carved into the wall, scraping his back where his shirt has ridden up slightly. He takes a shuddering breath that rattles and whistles around the blood in his mouth, and begins again: “ _I hold you in this place that watches and waits and keeps and takes. You may come whole, you may come perfect, but here you_ —”

There’s a hand in his hair again, but it’s not Jonah’s. Jude slams his head against the floor, kneels on top of him with a laugh as his world spins dizzyingly with the impact. There are starbursts of light obscuring his vision, which he mistakes for fire, until he sees Jude’s free hand coming closer and closer, closing over his right eye.

It doesn’t hurt, at first, like picking up a hot plate and not immediately dropping it. It takes a devastatingly long moment for his nerves to fire, to catch up with the pain.

And then he wonders how he could ever have mistaken the sparks of dizziness for true fire.

Martin screams.

* * *

Jon doesn’t know when Tim got ahead of him, but with each passing second, he seems to be regaining the strength and colour and vividness he’s been lacking for months. He might be without the capacity for fear, but Jon’s desperate urgency grows guiltily each time Tim seems to galvanise, pushing on through Helen’s tunnels as if unbothered by the dizzying spirals leading them in every and no direction at once.

Because it means Martin’s theory is right: there’s a loophole, a dangerous threshold where Tim and everyone else tied to the Institute can escape while it burns but is not destroyed. The Institute’s power and knowledge will survive with Martin’s becoming, and Tim will live on with, but not tied to, it.

The Institute as they know it is dying. And so, perhaps, is Martin.

“This way,” Basira calls, cutting Jon off and grabbing Tim’s shoulder where’s he’s darting off in front of them.

Another yellow door materialises, swinging open without any intervention, although he hears Helen’s excited, “You’re welcome!” echo after them as they burst through its uneven, pulsating frame. Basira is first out, and she draws to such an immediate stop that Jon and Tim thump into both of her shoulders.

“ _Holy shit_ ,” Tim breathes.

The Panopticon rises around them, a colosseum of omniscient observation and terror. Stacks and stacks of cells sit atop one another, although Jon is sure if he were to count each circular round of doors, they would add up to fourteen. A watchtower stands in the centre, but it looks almost as if it’s been repurposed as a lighthouse. Fire lashes out of the eye-shaped windows, sending bursts of oranges and reds across the otherwise dark and shadowy space between tower and cells.

“So this is Millbank Prison,” Basira says, her voice level but not unimpressed. She points at the matchstick of a watchtower. “I take it we need to be up there.”

Jon steps around Basira and makes for the door. “Come on.”

The watchtower’s door bursts open before they make it. His shirt covered in a worrying mosaic of blood and soot, Elias all but falls into the annular well where Helen’s door spat them out. He stumbles when he sees them, but his hesitance is short lived when a second figure emerges more slowly—but with a liquid smoothness to her movements that reminds Jon of a scurrying spider—from the looming watchtower.

Jon knows her, in no small part because she is exactly as described. She _does_ look like a vintage shop personified, dressed in a pair of denim dungarees half-unfasted to show off the too-big shirt of blocky primary colours beneath. Her hair is short, bleached at the ends. She almost looks like a student, with a thick book tucked casually beneath one arm as if she’s on the way to the library.

But part of her skull is missing, made cavernous in the strange, shadowy light of the Panopticon, and spiders spill from the silky webbing protecting the nest inside. The spiders scuttle over her shoulder and down the arm wrapped around the book. Jon catches sight of the title, his stomach swooping: _A Guest For Mr. Spider._

“Annabelle Cane,” Jon murmurs.

Annabelle smiles pleasantly. “Hello, Jon.”

“Get me _out of here_ ,” Elias growls, standing halfway between Jon and the others, and Annabelle’s patient, arachnoidian shadow.

“I don’t think you’re in the position to be making demands, you dick,” Tim says.

“Where’s Martin?” Jon demands.

Elias’s lips twitch into something that isn’t quite a smile. Annabelle simply stares back at them, her expression giving nothing and everything away. Jon feels his eyes move, almost of their own accord, to the top of the watchtower.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Jon gasps, and then he’s running.

Basira grabs him by the shoulder, yanking him back. “Wait.”

He pulls at her grip. “ _Basira_ —”

“Wait,” Basira tells him, stepping around him to face Elias and Annabelle, “Why are _you_ here?”

“Jonah Magnus has an appointment with Mr. Spider,” Annabelle replies, “You remember Mr. Spider, don’t you, Jon?”

“Jonah Magnus is dead,” Basira says.

Annabelle chuckles. “Is he?”

Jon’s gaze moves in tandem with Basira and Tim’s, landing on Elias.

“Oh, my god,” Tim whispers, “You’re _him._ Jonah _fucking_ Magnus.”

“Of course,” Jon murmurs, “Of _course._ All this time, _you_ —”

“As pleasant as it is to meet your acquaintances as my true self, the time you are wasting on surprise,” Elias— _Jonah_ —drawls, “Is time Martin really cannot afford. I’d suggest you dispatch of any obstacles sooner rather than later.”

Annabelle tips her head thoughtfully. More spiders fall out of her skull. “I think he’s talking about me.”

“I can assure you I’m integral to your survival,” Jonah says.

“That might have been true before, but—”

Tim steps around Basira’s calm figure, the same echo of composure in each step he takes towards Elias. “Let’s hear him out, Basira.”

“Tim,” Basira warns.

“Our _esteemed founder_ is basically _begging_ for our help. And I, for one, was raised to respect my elders,” Tim continues as he nears Elias, “I have one question for you, Jonah—can I call you Jonah?—before we decide whether we’re willing to help.”

“You’re _wasting time_ ,” Jonah snarls.

“Am I? Well, here’s the thing: I never actually went on that course you paid for about _effectively managing my time to boost overall office productivity_.”

“ _Tim_ ,” Jon snaps.

“Now, onto my question.”

Jonah sighs. “Go on.”

Tim grins. “My question is: would you prefer to be kicked or slapped?”

Jonah blinks, his eyebrows knitting together, and it’s this moment of confused processing that costs him. Tim swings a confident, controlled punch directly at Jonah’s face, sending him reeling to the floor of the Panopticon with an exclamation of shock and pain. Jonah sprawls across the unforgiving stone, failing to get his hands and knees beneath him as blood floods from his nose.

Tim shakes out the hand he used for the punch. “Sorry, forgot to mention there was a third option.”

“That was satisfying to watch,” Annabelle says with a grin.

Tim steps away from Jonah, bowing as if to make way for Annabelle as he backs towards where Basira and Jon linger. “He’s all yours.”

“Jon,” Jonah says desperately, in Elias’s stolen voice, “Jon, _please_. Be reasonable. It was always my intention to _help_ you become—”

Jon hesitates, his heart clenching. He remembers the way he used to respect Elias. How he made an effort to speak to him at office parties back when he was in research, and the way he’d told Rosie to pass on his gratitude that first day at the Archives. The way he was reassured, beneath the bravado of his own defence mechanisms, that Elias wouldn’t actually fire him for being unfair to statement-givers. He knows he’s been manipulated, strung out, harmed irreparably by the man in front of him, who is someone entirely unrecognisable even as he wears the same face as before. But some part of Jon wants to think he could be redeemed, could have set all of this into motion with good intentions.

And then, from the watchtower, he hears a scream of pain. _Martin_ , he thinks, _Martin, Martin, Martin_ , and nothing is more important, not Jonah Magnus or the fate that waits for him behind Mr. Spider’s door.

“Stay out of my way and I’ll stay out of yours,” Annabelle tells them.

“I know that tower’s on fire,” Tim says, “But I think I’d rather be up there than down here when she starts reading that book.”

“Let’s go,” Jon hisses, pushing the others towards the door, “ _Go_.”

The three of them make it through the watchtower door just as Annabelle begins reading behind them, her voice echoing around the Panopticon’s well in a way that makes it sound fathomless. Basira draws her gun, ushering Jon and Tim behind her as they ascend the spiral staircase up towards the viewing platform.

“What are you going to do with that?” Tim asks. “Shoot at the flames?”

“The flames? No.” Basira cocks the gun. “Jude Perry? Yes.”

“It won’t kill her,” Jon murmurs, before turning his face into his elbow to stifle a cough as they draw closer and closer to the top of the watchtower.

“Should have bought a fire extinguisher,” Tim says.

“From what I’ve heard, you can’t be trusted around CO2,” Basira replies.

There’s another scream from above, this time longer and louder until it seems to crack with agony and descend into a whimper.

Before Jon is even conscious of the decision, he’s pushing past Basira and Tim, taking the stairs two at a time. His lungs protest, tightening with exertion and the growing smoke, but he can’t stop moving, won’t stop moving until he reaches—

_Martin_. He’s trapped beneath Jude Perry, who has one knee pressed into his stomach as she holds him by the hair. Her other hand covers Martin’s right eye, squeezed shut even as Jude presses her thumb into the socket, smoke rising and curling from beneath her palm. Martin is moving weakly, his face turned away and his mouth open in a quiet sob of pain.

“Get away from him!” Jon thunders.

Jude looks up at him, her hand moving momentarily away from Martin’s face in surprise at his arrival. And then she smiles. “Oh, look, we have an audience. And just in time! I’m about to _destroy_ your Archivist.”

“Jon, _down_ ,” Basira snaps as she dives through the door, her gun levelled already at Jude’s crouching figure.

Jon ducks. Basira pulls the trigger.

The bullet lands, plunging through the rippling wax of Jude’s shoulder. She falls away from Martin, and he rolls onto his stomach, immediately pulling himself across the floor towards the throne at the centre of the watchtower.

And Jon _recoils_. There, sitting upon a throne of rippling black and green marble, is the eyeless body of Jonah Magnus.

Basira lets loose another bullet.

“Jon, get Martin!” Tim yells.

Jon throws himself towards Martin, covering his body as a third gunshot ricochets around the watchtower. Martin whimpers and struggles beneath Jon, reaching, writhing towards the throne.

“Jon,” Martin croaks, his voice laced with pain, cracked from the smoke and the screaming, “The ritual, I need—I have to—”

“No, Martin. _No_.” Jon clings to his arms, pulls Martin towards him even as he continues weakly to struggle. “Not like this, alright? Not like this. There has to be another way.”

“There’s not. There’s no other way,” Martin sobs.

Jon clings to him. He can feel Martin breathing heavily against him, but his struggles have ceased. His arms feel solid and real in Jon’s hands as he holds him pressed against his chest. “Jonah Magnus is gone, Martin. He’s _gone_.”

“The other Entities—they’ll always be another ritual,” Martin breathes, “I have to stop them. I have to—”

Tim crouches next to them, his hand startling Martin when it lands on his shoulder. “Let’s get you out of here, okay? Come on. Basira’s covering us.”

Martin begins to struggle again, pushing against Jon’s chest even as Jon doesn’t let go, won’t allow himself to let go. There’s a livid burn across the upper right half of Martin’s face, puckering his eye closed and turning the skin a weeping red. Blood from another injury has dried across his chin and in his hair, and he looks _wrecked_ by the failed ritual.

Another gunshot. Martin flinches, and Jon holds him close.

“Martin,” Jon says, “ _Martin_ , listen to me. _Listen_.”

Martin stops. Looks at Jon as best he can with his uninjured eye.

“Jonah Magnus is gone. The Archives are gone,” Jon tells him, “You don’t have to sacrifice yourself. We will find another way, I _promise_.”

Martin cries, quietly and completely. “Everything—everything I _did_ —”

“You saved us,” Tim murmurs, “You saved all of us, Martin. Let us help you now, okay? Let us take you home.”

Without warning, Martin lists towards Jon, half-conscious. Jon catches him, staring wide-eyed at Tim over Martin’s mess of curls, his heart pounding so loudly he wonders if he really is touched by the End, whether it’s true that he can’t feel fear. This feels awfully close.

“Hurry up!” Basira shouts.

“I’ve got him, I’ve got him,” Tim says hurriedly.

Tim lifts one of Martin’s arms over his shoulder. With some manoeuvring, Jon and Tim get Martin to hang between him, only just conscious enough to stand on his own two feet. He groans, his head lolling, but otherwise barely stirs as they make for the stairs.

Jude is in the corner, her skin of undulating wax dripping where Basira’s bullets have made contact. Jon forces his focus onto Martin, onto getting him _out_. With Tim’s help, they squeeze through the door into the stairwell, where a yellow door waits with Helen on the threshold.

“Basira!” Jon calls over his shoulder.

Basira backs through the door, her gun raised in warning as she follows them across the threshold of Helen’s door. The last sound they hear before the door swings closed is Jude’s scream of fury as the watchtower, the Panopticon, Jonah Magnus’s body are consumed by flames.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was so much fun to write!!!!!! my two favourite avatars interacting (not u jonah fuck off), tim punching elias/jonah, a jonmartin reunion..... have i peaked? i am still sorry for being mean to Martin tho and i promise he will get all the love and care he deserves in the next chapter, which is a much needed change in tone and pace for our beloved characters. 
> 
> update next Friday. have a great week <3


	19. i am the forest and i am the fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin joins the safehouse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER SPECIFIC CONTENT WARNINGS: disorientation, disassociation, the Spiral (Entity), swearing, major character injury, burns, treating burns, fire, the Lonely (Entity), disagreements/arguments, religious imagery, religion, mentioned breakup (Georgie and Jon's), animal death (the Admiral killed a mouse), scars, pain medication.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I am not a medical professional. Please do not treat burns the way the characters do here. Take care of yourselves and seek proper assistance!!!!
> 
> Chapter title from "A Burning Hill" by Mitski.

The chaos when they step through Helen’s door and back into the safehouse is not too dissimilar to the fire they’ve just left behind.

Georgie is _right in front of the door_ , as if she knew where Helen was going to drop them back into reality, and Basira nearly falls over her as she leads the way out of the Spiral. There’s a moment, before the rest of them follow, where Georgie and Basira just _look_ at each other before the former pulls the latter into a quick but firm hug, then passes her on to Daisy’s waiting care.

Between Jon and Tim, they’ve just about managed to get Martin through the tunnels without any falls, but many near misses. They have one such near miss as the emerge from the Spiral and have to re-adjust to solid ground that doesn’t move and swirl and curl and shake. Georgie attempts to catch them all, and then she swears when she sees the state Martin’s in.

The Admiral is making small noises of discontent as he circles them. Melanie tries to calm him down, but he refuses to be picked up or held.

“Melanie, you’re not going to fucking believe this,” Tim shouts, causing Martin to groan and turn the uninjured side of his face into the fold between Jon’s throat and shoulder, “Sorry. The adrenaline’s getting to me.”

The TV is on, Jon notes distantly. He can hear a serious BBC voice reading, “ _our top story tonight: emergency services are still at the scene of a fire in Chelsea that has consumed the Magnus Institute, an organisation dedicated to academic research into the paranormal. Reports suggest the majority of staff evacuated the building before the fire spread to its current extent, as you can see behind me. However, the fire brigade has released the names of three members of staff who remain unaccounted for: Elias Bouchard, the Head of the Institute; Peter Lukas, the Assistant Head of the Institute; and Martin Blackwood, the_ —”

“Hey, look, we made it on the six o’clock news,” Tim says.

“He needs to go to a hospital,” Georgie snaps, already grabbing her burner phone and wallet from the camping table, “I’ll call an Uber and we’ll—”

“No,” Martin croaks, seeming to gain enough awareness to roll his head away from Jon, “No hospitals.”

Georgie stares at Martin, and Jon feels something warm in his chest at the way she’s taken so quickly to caring about someone else so close to his heart. “I know hospitals aren’t fun, but you have at _least_ second degree burns on your _face_ , Martin. You need antibiotics and maybe a tetanus jab and—”

Georgie stops, staring at Martin’s feet. Jon glances down, too, and sees a mass of icy fog circling Martin’s ankles like a living, looping infinity symbol. The Lonely lingers, it seems. And worse, Martin appears to draw more strength and determination the less opaque and more present the fog becomes. The pained expression leeches from his face, and he pulls away from Jon and Tim—first from their comfort, then physically.

Jon doesn’t let him go. “She’s right, Martin.”

“Did _you_ go to the hospital after your meeting with Jude Perry?” Martin snaps. His lips twitch humourlessly at Jon’s responding silence. “Thought so.”

“Yes, and that was _wrong_. I should have listened Georgie. I should have listened to what my body was telling me, which is that burns are _really bad_ —”

“Oh, they are? I had _no idea_ ,” Martin shoots back, finally freeing himself from Jon’s hold, but he stumbles the moment he’s away and Tim has to step in to catch him. He deflates slightly against Tim’s support. “I can’t—the hospital isn’t _safe_.”

“Jonah Magnus is gone,” Jon says.

“ _Stop_ saying that!” Martin cries, his voice shrill and shaking.

“Alright.” Jon takes a deep, shaking breath. “Alright, Martin, why don’t we—?”

“I’m _not_ —”

“Let me finish.” Jon gives Martin a firm look and he relents. “I’m only offering this on the condition that you _swear_ to let us take you to the hospital if the pain becomes unmanageable or if there’s even the slightest sign of infection.”

Martin nods, just once. Tim squeezes his shoulder in encouragement, still supporting him slightly.

“We still have the dressings and antibiotic cream from when I was forced to seek medical attention for my burn a few days after—well. Georgie and I will help you to treat it here— _no_ hospitals—as long as you do exactly as we tell you.”

“Fine,” Martin relents unhappily.

“Georgie,” Jon says, nodding to the bathroom.

“Right. Come on, then, Martin. Let’s get you… well.” Georgie’s lips turn down unhappily, but she begins to lead Martin to the bathroom. She and Jon don’t touch him as they walk, but they’re both on edge, ready to catch him if he stumbles.

“Did I hear one of you mention _Jonah Magnus_?” Melanie’s voice says from the main living space. “What’s that crusty old man got to do with anything?”

“You’re gonna want to sit down for this one,” Tim says.

“Tim,” Basira tells him, “It’s not _that_ —”

“Basira, let me have this.”

“Fine.”

“I’ll get the popcorn,” Daisy says sarcastically.

“That’s the spirit!”

Georgie closes the door behind them, muffling the rest of the conversation. She sighs and begins opening various cupboards in search of the medical supplies. “I _really_ hoped I wouldn’t have to do this again, you know.”

“I know,” Jon murmurs, “I owe you a thousand shopska salads when this is all over.”

“And then some,” Georgie says, but dedicates herself to the task of locating the medical supplies without further complaint.

“Do you want to, uh… sit down?” Jon asks Martin, gesturing at the closed toilet as if it’s some grand offering.

“No,” Martin replies dully.

“You’re gonna have to sit down for this bit, I’m afraid. On the floor, that is,” Georgie tells him, no nonsense, “First things first, we need to run that under water, okay?”

For a moment, Martin seems to _flicker_ , as if he’s not entirely present. A look of such devastated uncertainty crosses his face that Jon wants to hold him, slot him into his arms and just… stay. For a long time. Until all of this passes over.

The small, scared look vanishes. Martin nods, but doesn’t speak.

Georgie guides Martin down to sit on the rug beside the bathtub, his back pressed against its side while she wraps a towel around his shoulders. She flinches when she sees the extent of the burn in the harsh bathroom light, but she’s as calm and efficient as ever as she reaches for the shower head, pulling it down from the wall.

She tests the temperature and a few different settings while Martin presses the base of his skull against the edge of the bathtub, staring blankly at the ceiling.

“They’ll all going to be too strong, aren’t they?” Georgie murmurs, almost to herself, although she meets Jon eye’s where he kneels next to Martin.

“What if I—ah, held my hand like—and then you—?” Jon falters, trying to demonstrate with his hands what he means.

Georgie hums. “That might work. What do you think, Martin?”

“It’s fine,” Martin murmurs, “I’m fine.”

“Okay,” Georgie says, like she doesn’t believe him one bit, “Wash your hands with soap in the sink first, Jon. Martin, tip your head back and close your eyes. If it gets too much, let one of us know.”

Without saying anything, Martin does as asked, leaning his head over the side of the bathtub and squeezing his eyes—at least, the one not already scorched shut—closed as Georgie once again switches on the shower. She meets Jon’s eyes, her mouth a grim but determined line, and nods at him to go ahead.

After washing them so thoroughly his skin feels a little raw, Jon cups his hands over Martin’s head and allows Georgie to direct the lukewarm water into his waiting palms. It spills over, and he directs it as gently as he can onto the side of Martin’s face consumed by the livid, hand-shaped burn. The water washes over the red skin and Martin’s hair where it’s been turned black by Jude’s touch.

Martin doesn’t flinch. Jon shivers, even though the bathroom is always the warmest room in the safehouse, and the water isn’t particularly cold. He meets Georgie’s eyes, and she nods to the fog still wrapped around Martin’s feet.

“We might have to cut your hair,” Georgie says gently, as if afraid to startle Martin, “I can do that once we’ve been under here for a good fifteen minutes or so. Got to be a bit of an expert at cutting hair while I was at uni, you know. Jon would _never_ go to a barber’s, but he would complain constantly about how long his hair would get.”

Martin’s lips twitch, as if he wants to smile.

Jon rolls his eyes fondly. “I wasn’t _that_ bad.”

“I mean, I liked your hair long. Always thought it was sort of endearing, especially when you let me plait it. But it would always wind you up the moment it touched your ears. Used to keep you up all night sometimes.” Georgie’s eyes widen comically and she gasps. “Don’t tell me you’ve had a spooky encounter with a barber. Is Sweeny Tod _real_?”

“No,” Jon says, unimpressed, “ _Definitely_ not.”

Georgie’s smile softens. “Your grandmother used to cut it before me, right?”

Martin’s uninjured eye flickers, like he wants to open it, look at Jon.

“Yes. Every last Sunday of the month. I would squirm and protest relentlessly, so she usually let me watch something inappropriate to hold my attention.”

“Oh, I really want to know what she deemed inappropriate. Don’t you, Martin?”

Martin hums in agreement with the smallest of smiles.

“ _ChuckleVision_ , for the most part,” Jon admits.

“ _Really_?” Georgie scoffs.

“Oh, yes. She didn’t want me to get any _ideas_.”

“About the merits of teamwork, or…?”

Jon scowls. “I can work as part of a team.”

“I know, I know.”

“She would let me watch it as long as I didn’t laugh, which she insisted would ruin the haircut,” Jon tells them, “That seemed like quite the threat at the time.”

“Oh, my god, is _that_ why you’re so good at keeping a straight face? You’ve had all that practice!”

“Oh, dear, Martin,” Jon says dryly to Martin, “It seems I’ve revealed my secret.”

Martin laughs, very quietly, through his nose. His eyes are still closed.

“Always wondered how you managed with your hair after we broke up. I thought I was doing okay, you know, six months or so on—and then I found that godawful razor set while I was packing to move flats and cried for the rest of the day.”

“I’m sorry, Georgie,” Jon murmurs.

“Oh, I’m over it now, don’t worry. But I am kinda curious: how _did_ you manage?”

Jon would shrug if he wasn’t still holding his hands cupped over Martin’s head like a haphazard baptism. “I let it grow out.”

“Your hair was short,” Martin says, his voice small and quiet, but Jon nearly jumps and drops his hands at the sound, “When we started in the Archives.”

Jon blinks, finding himself softly surprised that Martin remembers this detail. “Yes, I—I forced myself to get a haircut the day before. I wanted to come across as professional and—well, not completely unprepared for the role.”

“Shame,” Martin murmurs, “I always… wondered what you’d look like. With long hair.”

“Maybe I’ll grow it out again,” Jon muses.

Martin’s unhurt eye actually opens in alarm. “Not if you don’t like it.”

“Eyes closed,” Georgie urges Martin, “There we go. You’re doing really well.”

“Yes,” Jon agrees quietly, “You are.”

“Can… can you t-tell me something else?” Martin asks. He flinches, for the first time, and Jon can see his legs shaking where they’re bent towards his chest. The fog is dimming, fading.

“Of course,” Georgie says, as if he’s asked her a much simpler question. Jon envies her ease. “How about… oh, did Jon ever tell you about how we got the Admiral?”

“I must have,” Jon insists, because he likes talking about the Admiral. It always feels like a safe subject, something he can reveal about himself without being too awkward or restrained.

“I don’t think you did,” Martin says.

“Really? Well, we’ll have to change that.”

Georgie gives Jon an encouraging look. “You do the honours, then.”

“It would have been our third year.”

“Fourth, for me.”

“Georgie’s fourth year, my third. For some unfathomable reason, we decided to move back into Baliol—”

“Unfathomable?” Georgie snickers. “You _insisted_ you would murder Andreas and Max if you had to put up with them for another year.”

“Andreas and Max were our housemates in second year,” Jon says to Martin, “And I didn’t say I would murder them.”

“Hmm. Actually, yeah, I think you said you’d peel them?”

“Sounds about right,” Martin agrees, slightly breathless with pain, “Think you threatened me with that one once, too.”

“Yes, well—I thought it would be easier to move back into college than explain this to them,” Jon says awkwardly.

“Wasn’t quite as ruthless back then,” Georgie mock-whispers.

“I am not _ruthless_. And would you like to tell the story, Georgie, since you keep interrupting?”

“No, keep going. I’ll shut up.”

“Our college Chapel had a cat. I can’t remember her actual name, but I used to call her the Cardinal.”

Martin manages a smile. “Obviously.”

“Well, the Cardinal was something of a mischievous cat who liked to disappear for such long periods of time that she was frequently reported missing. There was nearly always a search party of Baliol students out looking for her on the weekends,” Jon continued, “Now, as part of the research for my dissertation—as you know, I studied Philosophy and Theology—”

“Wait. This is the last time I interrupt, I promise,” Georgie says, “But Martin, _did_ you know that? Because Tim did not.”

“I did know that, yeah,” Martin replies.

Jon doesn’t quite know what to make of Georgie’s odd smile. “Interesting.”

“Can I continue?” Jon asks, arching an eyebrow at Georgie.

“Go ahead.”

“I was volunteering at the chapel as part of the research for my dissertation. My duties mostly involved ensuring the Cardinal did not disappear. This was, apparently, becoming too upsetting for the freshers.” Jon found his voice drifting into the dry derision of when he used to first read the statements, but it seems to make Martin relax rather than retreat into himself, so he pushes on. “Unfortunately, I was so absorbed in taking research notes one particular afternoon that it completely slipped my notice when the Cardinal once again escaped the chapel.”

“Uh oh,” Martin says quietly. His eyelids flutter a little at a particularly violent splash of water from Jon’s hands.

“Uh oh indeed,” Jon echoes, getting a little theatrical now, “Georgie and I spent all night searching for the Cardinal, only to find her an hour before my nine o’clock seminar in the chapel of Trinity College, copulating with their own resident cat.”

“It was a real enemies to lovers situation,” Georgie adds, “But that’s a story for another time.”

“I was relieved enough that we’d located her in time to attend the seminar that it didn’t occur to me to be concerned,” Jon continues, “Until one month later, when I realised the Cardinal seemed somewhat rounder than before. I was forced to come clear to the chaplain at having failed in my duties and, as expected, he was _very_ unimpressed. He did assure me, however, that he would not report my oversight to my dissertation supervisor on the condition that I found a home for the Cardinal’s imminent kittens.

“I thought he was joking; I said as much. He was completely serious. I believe I spent more time homing the Cardinal’s kittens than writing my dissertation. One went to my grandmother’s neighbour, another to Andreas’s sister—which was a logistical nightmare, by the way, since she lives in Madrid. The bursar of Trinity College had sense of humour enough to adopt one of the spurious kittens. I think she created a blog written from the cat’s perspective, actually, in the hopes of reducing intercollegiate animosity.

“That left just one kitten who I couldn’t find a home for and, in fact, I’d become rather attached to. Georgie and I had already found a flat in Edinburgh, which was close to the institute where I was enrolled to study parapsychology and the museum where Georgie had been offered the role of communications officer. The landlord was adamant we could not have pets. We tried everything: begging, bribery, I even considered abandoning my academic career and opening a cat café.”

Martin almost laughs. “Are you _serious_?”

“Absolutely. I would have been ahead of my time. In any case, my grandmother told me that under no circumstances was I to choose a cat over my career, and said she would look after the kitten until we found a place to live that accepted pets. And so the Admiral, in a turn of bad luck for him but good luck for us, spent his first year in Bournemouth until Georgie and I moved down to London.” Jon finds himself smiling at Martin, even though his eyes are still closed. “There you have it: the conclusion of the nearly three-year saga that resulted from my lack of attention while looking after an ecclesiastical cat.”

“And after all that, I was the one who got custody of the Admiral. Jon couldn’t find a pet-friendly flat within a reasonable distance of the Institute. At least, not one he wouldn’t need a flatmate to afford,” Georgie says.

Jon looks away from Martin for the briefest of moments, to pull a face at Georgie for reminding him of that particularly unpleasant period of his life where they were still trying to figure out the logistics of their breakup. When he looks back, Martin is trembling all over, a few tears spilling from beneath his closed eyes. The fog has disappeared completely.

“ _Martin_ ,” Jon murmurs.

“It’s alright. I’m fine. That was a nice story. Really nice.” Martin tries to smile, but his face twists in pain. “It’s just—with the Lonely, I couldn’t feel—couldn’t feel anything. And now I can—can feel _all of it_. And it _hurts_.”

Georgie snaps back into her serious, attentive mode, all hints of teasing gone. “Okay, I think we can stop with the water now. How about we put some of this antibiotic cream on that burn and dress it and then see how you’re feeling after? We have ibuprofen and paracetamol, but if that doesn’t take the edge off, I really do think we should consider A&E.”

Jon can’t take his eyes of Martin, crying and shaking beneath his cupped hands. When Georgie switches the shower off and hands Jon a towel, he doesn’t hesitate to gently work it through Martin’s wet curls, keeping away from the stretching burn while he dries. Martin’s eyes remain closed.

“We’re just going to let that air dry a little, okay, Martin?” Georgie says. Martin nods shakily, and Georgie squeezes his shoulder. “You’re doing great. And we’ve got plenty more Admiral stories if you want them.”

“Y-yeah,” Martin breaths, “Yeah, sounds good.”

“Okay, how about…” Georgie looks at Jon. She must notice he won’t be able to speak, even if asked. “How about the time the Admiral nearly ruined my podcasting career before it even started?”

Georgie proceeds to tell Martin the elaborate tale of the Admiral acting as the singular incarnation of the four horsemen of the podcast career apocalypse. First there was the issue of Jon’s initial stint in Research consisting almost entirely of nightshifts, because Artefact Storage were the “department that never sleeps” and required someone on hand to assist with transcribing should any unusual occurrences happen overnight. This meant Jon was never around in the evenings, when Georgie recorded the podcast after her own workday, and the Admiral would stand outside of the door and cry constantly for attention.

The second problem was that, when Georgie relented and started letting the Admiral into the room, his fur started to interfere with the recording equipment. This was nearly a moot point when a sponsor offered to pay for Georgie to rent a proper studio, but they walked away with each other’s coats after the meeting, and said sponsor had a very bad allergic reaction to the cat hair on Georgie’s.

When, at last, things seemed to have settled down, Georgie was on the verge of a lucrative sponsorship deal with a mattress company when the Admiral deposited a dead mouse on the contract. And then he did the same with the mattress they sent Georgie during a sponsored livestream on Instagram. There were many questions, but it did work itself out. In the end.

Jon listens, even though he knows the story, lived it. Part of the enjoyment is in watching Martin absorb these small parts of Jon’s life _before_ , smiling even though his tears at the Admiral’s antics. Jon lets his mind wander only to the thought, the _hope_ , that one day he might like memories like this, for holding on to and sharing on difficult days, with Martin himself.

When did he start thinking like that? Jon can’t remember, exactly. There’s no switch, no burst of realisation. Just a slow, gentle awareness that Martin is all he wants. A future with Martin.

“He’s a menace,” Jon says solemnly. He finds his hand in Martin’s hair, absently stoking the curls where they haven’t been touched by Jude’s flames.

“He’s your menace,” Martin mumbles.

Jon laughs, surprising himself. “Is that a reflection on my parenting technique?”

“No. _No_ , I’m sure you’d be a good—” Martin stops, his breath a painful, trembling thing. He opens his eyes. He looks at Jon. “I just meant—”

Jon smiles. It feels impossibly inadequate. “I know what you meant, Martin.”

“Let’s get a dressing on that,” Georgie says, standing to get the cream and dressings from where they’re resting ready on the sink.

It’s a painful, faltering process. Jon can’t quantify in his mind how much time has passed, for how long he holds Martin’s hand in his own scarred offering, how long he strokes his thumb against Martin’s forehead as Georgie is forced to cut most of his hair in order to wrap the dressing properly across the right side of his face. He tries not to flinch each time Martin does, tries not to shake as he grasps Martin’s hand to his chest, tries not to wonder if Martin can hear the way his heart is pounding.

At last, it’s done. Martin’s face is bandaged haphazardly, but it looks secure and as comfortable as it can be with their limited medical knowledge. Jon watches Georgie bite her lip and think again about the hospital as he lets Martin rest the unhurt side of his face against his shoulder, almost asleep. They’re both sitting with their backs against the bathtub now, while Georgie lingers by the door.

“All dressed up with nowhere to go,” Georgie quips.

Jon feels the huff of Martin’s laughing breath against his throat. With a smile, Jon turns his head, murmurs against the soft fuzz of Martin’s freshly shaved head: “Barker classic.”

“You know it.” Georgie pats Jon on the shoulder. “I’ll get you some water so you can take those tablets, okay? Be right back.”

Georgie leaves them alone inside the small, warm bathroom. Jon rests his cheek against the crown of Martin’s head, and they sit there for a while, breathing together.

“I should explain—to the others—I need—”

“Martin. _Martin_ ,” Jon interrupts, “Not before you rest.”

“I need to tell you—”

“We listened to the tape. We know.” Jon sighs. “ _I_ know.”

Jon feels Martin swallow thickly, on the edge of tears again. “I thought you’d never find it. I thought…”

“You’re safe now.”

“Am I?” Martin croaks. “When I said, earlier—when I said I could _feel_ it all. I meant the Archives. All the terror. Every statement. It’s me now. And I—I hate it almost as much as I—as I _need_ it.”

“Oh, Martin.”

“I’m not safe. None of us are, not while I—”

“Listen to me, Martin.” Jon doesn’t move, but he feels Martin push closer to him anyway, as if he might. “We’re going to find a way to resolve this. I don’t—I don’t have the answers, and I am—I am _so_ sorry. But I’m here. And I—I care about you far too much to let you complete the ritual.”

“It’s not me you should be worrying about, Jon. The _whole world_ —”

“It’s still there, Martin. Because of you. Tim’s right: you saved all of us. And we’ll find a way to make that permanent.” Jon sighs again. “But not tonight. Please, let us help you. Please _rest_.”

“If you were in my situation—”

“You can use my hypocrisy against me the next time I’m ill, which I’m sure will be soon, considering the state of my immune system.”

“You need to eat more vegetables,” Martin mutters, “Maybe try orange juice.”

“What I’m trying to say is, I give you permission to fuss when it’s my turn. And I promise to comply with minimal complaint. But please, this time, let me be the one who worries.”

“Alright, Jon,” Martin says, his voice breaking halfway.

Jon puts his arms around Martin, pulls him close just as the sobs begin in earnest. It must be painful on its own—Jon knows the way such tears cut and burn, leave a gaping rawness within oneself—but with the injury, he can’t imagine how unbearable it feels for Martin. All he can do is hold on, keep Martin tucked tight against him, rocking them both slightly. He looks up at the ceiling, tries not to cry, too.

Georgie doesn’t come back until Martin stops crying, seemingly too exhausted to keep going. Jon thinks she must know somehow. When she steps silently back into the bathroom, Jon still has his arms around Martin, who is half-asleep against his chest. Their eyes meet, and Jon almost breaks again when Georgie smiles at him. He knows that smile, understands it. It contains all the tangled joy and relief and pain and humour Jon feels towards Georgie’s love for Melanie.

Jon _understands_. He holds Martin even closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a second, less serious disclaimer: i don't know if oxford's college chapels have resident cats. big if true. would make uni life more bearable. also i know long-haired Jon is a popular headcanon but is it a fanfic if you don't project onto the characters? Jon can have my hatred of hair texture, as a treat. 
> 
> i am very sorry for the late upload. i completely forgot what day of the week it was. next update will be Friday, as usual - i WILL keep track of time!!! stay safe and have a great week <3


	20. i was told this is where i would start loving myself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scenes from a safehouse, Part 1.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER-SPECIFIC CONTENT WARNINGS: nightmares, manipulation, spiders, arachnophobia, mentions of cults and sacrifices, nausea, grief/loss, burns, fire, fever, discussions of the apocalypse, mentions of hospitals and hospitalisation, suicidal ideation, self-worth issues, disassociation, the Lonely (Entity), food, mentions of prison, mentioned character death (Elias, Peter... sort of?). i only tagged the Lonely as the Entity in this chapter, but i think nearly all of them show up because Martin is dreaming.
> 
> Chapter title from "If I'm Being Honest" by dodie.

Martin walks the halls of dreams that do not belong to him.

He’s a sleepless liar on the deck of a ship, watching the debris of a satellite fall towards them, and he’s always too late to offer words of reassurance to the crew whose fear he thrills in drinking. He’s not sure he would have words at all, even if the impact didn’t shove him sideways into another dream.

He’s caught in a web and he doesn’t know if it’s of his own making. He’s walking into the interview with Elias, his arms and legs pulled by silky strings, like he’s simply a puppet being tugged along the tragedy that is his life so far. He’s a spider with too many eyes, sitting atop the lies he’s told. Did he put himself here, all along? Was any of it ever in his control?

He’s in Ny-Ålesund, but a long time before his visit. He’s watching sacrifice after sacrifice being committed to darkness, he’s bathing in the completeness of the eclipse as it covers the worshippers. And then it’s all going wrong, spiralling out of control, and he delights in the fear of the ritual’s failure at the same time as it’s painful to let go of the opportunity to wring so much terror from the world.

He’s falling. He thinks he’s meant to wake up, in such dreams, before he hits the ground. But he doesn’t wake up. He doesn’t hit the ground, either. He just falls and falls and falls, aimlessly, constantly. He’d read about why that falling sensation jolts you awake, when he was trying to research parapsychology in preparation for his first day at the Institute. But that logic had seemed shaky even at the time, and here it makes no sense. Nothing makes sense, not even up or down, except that he knows he’s falling in a direction that makes him sick and scared.

He’s underground, but it’s not the Buried’s work this time. A theatre looms around him, tall and fathomless walls despite being tucked deep beneath London. He’s surrounded by a faceless stone audience. He’s one of them, even though he can hear himself breathing. Tim stands in the aisle next to him, just as frozen, his eyes always on the performance, the same sick show over and over. A Stranger, a clown, taking the person Tim loves most. And it might be the first time, but it won’t be the last.

“Tim,” Martin gasps awake, reaching for the person sitting in the bed next to him and clinging tight, “Tim. _Tim_.”

“—artin. _Martin_ ,” says the figure, and it’s Jon.

_It’s Jon_.

Martin is so used to waking alone that he doesn’t know how to process _this_. Jon is sitting next to him on a double mattress, atop the tie-die cover that is tangled around Martin, his back against the wall behind them. He seems to be halfway through a small, worn book, but he drops it when Martin’s hand tightens around his arm. His hand, now free of the book, moves to rest atop Martin’s head, avoiding the throbbing, stretching burn across his face.

“Martin, it’s alright,” Jon murmurs, “We’re safe. We’re all safe.”

Martin’s too hot, all over, his whole body burning. But it weighs his limbs down, and too much of his energy is going into holding on to Jon to try and kick off the blanket. “Tim. Where’s Tim?”

There’s an endearingly concerned crease between Jon’s eyebrows. “He’s in the shower.”

“Not—” Martin lips his licks. They’re dry and cracked, and he’s so thirsty but he doesn’t know how to ask for relief. “Not asleep?”

Jon’s frown deepens. “No, not asleep.”

“I—I dreamt…”

“Oh.” Jon’s eyes widen slightly in realisation, before his expression folds into one of sympathy. His thumb rubs at Martin’s forehead where the burn doesn’t spread, just below his now-shaved hairline. “Oh, Martin.”

Martin can’t relax into him, not yet, not even if it’s all he wants to do. “Why? _Why_ did I—? He’s _awake_.”

“Maybe it was… a dream of a dream,” Jon offers, “Not the thing itself, but an echo of it.”

“A human dream.”

Jon hesitates. Nods, though it seems to pain him. “Yes.”

“But I was in—the statements—the other statements.” Martin closes his eyes. “I don’t _understand_.”

“Don’t try to,” Jon murmurs. There’s almost a begging lilt to it. “Go back to sleep.”

“But that’s—that’s what we _do_. We _analyse_.”

“Not at—well, it’s ten o’clock in the morning, but I consider that a moot point since you don’t appear to have slept properly in months.”

Martin rests his head against the arm he’s still clinging to. “Jon.”

“Yes, Martin?”

“Where are we?” Martin asks.

“Somewhere safe.” Jon’s smile is small but genuine. “I promise.”

“I’m so thirsty.”

Jon starts to move. “I’ll get you—”

Martin clamps his hand harder around Jon’s arm, holding it tight to his chest so that it would be impossible for Jon to move and not take Martin with him.

“Alright, alright,” Jon says, laughing so softly it’s almost impossible to hear. He looks at someone over Martin’s head. “Ah, Daisy, do you think you could—could get a glass of water for Martin, please?”

Martin doesn’t hear Daisy’s reply, and he’s asleep before she returns with the water.

He stalks more dreams. The longer he’s asleep, the more Jon’s words fade: _a dream of a dream_. What does that mean? All dreams are within themselves, like when you look in a mirror of a mirror and the reflection goes on and on forever. He’s a twisted, cracked, inhuman echo of terror.

This time, it’s Jonah Magnus’s statement. Martin is watching himself, waiting in the shadows, as he is marked over and over. As he stumbles into the Institute after Jane Prentiss’ siege, as he leads the police down through the tunnels to Gertrude’s body. As he makes tea for the thing that is not Sasha and wonders why she seems different, less warm. He watches and waits and _dreams_ within the dream of existence made anew, himself lording over it all, the king of the ruined world. It’s a delicious dream. It’s the promise of terror eternal.

He thinks he might be laughing. Or crying. Or both.

He’s aware that he’s being touched, comforted, held even as he wriggles and worms away from it. The shards of consciousness return to him slowly and still cut even as they fit together to form a whole. In the background, he can hear a prim, smooth voice saying, “ _Three days after the initial blaze, the Magnus Institute in London continues to burn as firefighters struggle to bring the flames under control. Luckily, the fire has not spread to any of the surrounding buildings, but the area has been closed to the public until further_ —”

“Is he _laughing_?” Melanie asks. Why is Melanie in his dreams?

“I—I don’t know,” Jon says. He sounds closer. “Martin. Martin, can you hear me?”

Martin is laughing now. He can feel himself vibrating with it. “The sky, it’s—it wants to _look_. It wants to _look back_. The sky _blinks_ , Jon.”

“I don’t like the sound of that,” Basira murmurs from somewhere further away.

“I think we should take him to hospital,” Georgie says quietly, “He’s got a fever, and we don’t know if the wound is infected because we can’t get near him like this, and I’m _not_ cut out for a career in nursing.”

“I agree with Georgie,” Tim pipes up, “About the hospital. As for her career options, I think she can do anything she puts her mind to.”

There’s a sigh that can only be Daisy’s. “Is now _really_ the time?”

“For respecting women? Always.”

“Stop using humour as a coping mechanism, Tim.”

Martin laughs and laughs. “Look at the sky. _It wants to look back_.”

“I really think I should call an ambulance.” Georgie takes a fortifying breath. “No, you know what, I’m doing it. I’m calling an ambulance _right now_.”

This pushes through Martin’s delirium. He snatches at the wrists of the hands clinging to his shoulders, digs his nails in to punctuate his words. “No. It’s not safe. It’s _not safe_ outside.”

“Martin, the sky is—the sky’s as it’s always been,” Jon tells him helplessly. He’s the one holding on to Martin, the one who Martin is holding on to in turn. “It’s not looking back at us.”

“I can make it,” Martin says, and he’s not laughing anymore. He’s crying, and _god_ , it hurts the eye that Jude has burned almost shut. “That’s what Jonah—Elias, I have to tell you about—he’s _Jonah_ , and he wanted me to make the sky _look back_.”

“Alright, it’s alright,” Jon tells him soothingly, “Jonah—he’s—he isn’t here, Martin. He can’t make you do anything anymore.”

“I wanted it, though,” Martin whispers, “I think I wanted it.”

“Jon,” Georgie says.

“Please, I don’t want to go to the hospital,” Martin sobs, “ _Please_.”

“Martin, you made us a promise.”

“I know, I know, but—but I _can’t_. Please, I don’t—it’s full of death.”

Jon frowns. “What is?”

“Like a sowing kit. All full of string. All full of death,” Martin murmurs.

“Oh, god,” Tim says, his voice deep with alarm.

“I’m not going,” Martin snaps, “I’m _not_.”

“Alright, okay, let’s just—” Jon takes a shuddering breath. “If you aren’t any better in an hour, Georgie is calling that ambulance.”

“Jon, _really_ , I—”

Martin falls again.

He almost excepts to wake up in hospital. But when he returns to his body, he doesn’t hear the beep of familiar machines, the bustle of medical staff passing by or hushed, grief-stricken conversations. He does feel better, though. The burn is less livid, and he thinks someone has changed the dressing recently because it no longer feels so hot and tight beneath the gauze. He must have drunk some water at last, too, because his throat is raw but not from dehydration. There’s a cool, wet flannel over his forehead and his uninjured eye, but his body no longer shakes and burns with fever.

“ _After five days, firefighters have finally managed to bring the blaze at the Magnus Institute in London under control_ ,” says a far-off, polished voice, “ _The police and fire service have continued to appeal to anyone who might have information on three members of staff still unaccounted for after the incident: Elias Bouchard, Peter Lukas and Martin Blackwood._ _There remains some uncertainty as to whether they were inside of the building when_ —”

Martin takes a deep breath, and someone startles slightly beside him before stretching fully awake. “Martin?”

“Jon?” Martin mumbles from beneath the flannel.

“Hello,” Jon says, his voice so soft that Martin’s heart breaks.

Slowly, Martin pulls the flannel away from his face. Jon is sitting on the mattress with him, just like the first time he woke up, the book significantly closer to being finished but abandoned open on his chest as he presumably slept. There are deep lines of exhaustion in his face, but the gentle relief in the way he smiles at Martin seems to erase all traces of fatigue.

“Hi,” Martin replies.

Jon busies himself moving the book from his chest to the floor beside the mattress, a faint blush just beneath his cheeks. He has a scar along his jaw from the worms, like a constellation. “How do you—what?”

Martin can’t exactly say he desperately wants to trace the Cassiopeia on Jon’s jaw, so he looks at the discarded book for inspiration and laughs for the first time in months. It’s a real laugh, not like the hysterics he’d descended into with the fever. He knows this because of how small and short it is, straggling like it’s only just learning how to exist again. “Are you reading _Pride and Prejudice_?”

“Yes,” Jon replies, growing haughty in his defensiveness, “It’s not terrible. I prefer _Persuasion_ , but—”

Martin laughs again. “Wait, you’ve read _Persuasion_?”

“Yes, while I was at university,” Jon says again, frowning, “I rather enjoyed it.”

“I’m not—I’m not laughing _at_ you, Jon.”

“It seems like you are.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Martin hastens to add, “It’s just—I sort of thought you hated classics. You know, what with your opinion on Keats and all that.”

“This is different.”

“And I also thought you never read books by the same author, except for—”

“Ursula K. Le Guin. Yes, Martin, I remember having this conversation.” Jon is so adorably grumpy, in this moment, that Martin wants to kiss him. “It transpires that being on the run from various eldritch horrors makes it difficult to find the time to visit a bookshop. Tim brought his two favourite books here: _The Princess Bride_ , which I’ve already read, and _Pride and Prejudice_ , which I have not.”

“Is it annotated?” Martin asks.

Jon sighs. “How did you know?”

“Tim let me borrow his copy of— _The Bluest Eye_ , I think it was? Full of proper literary analysis in the margins. Very educational.”

“Well, at least he’s consistent,” Jon mutters.

Martin feels the moment of brevity fade into the silence. He can’t even manage a smile anymore, and his face hurts in a way that makes him want to cry, even though he knows that will only make it worse. “Jon, I—”

“Do you want a cup of tea?” Jon asks abruptly.

“Um… yeah, okay. That would be nice?”

Jon arches an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, Jon. A cup of tea would be great.”

Jon climbs off the mattress and makes his way towards the old-fashioned kitchenette. It reminds Martin of the kitchen in his grandfather’s house, which had probably been all the range before he was born, but then had stayed that way for many years afterwards, even when Martin and his mother inherited it. A little ugly, a lot of browns and beiges, and it looks like it’s withstood more wear and tear than originally intended by the manufacturers. Then again, Martin doesn’t think Ikea really take eldritch abominations into account when planning the durability of their products.

Tim’s in the kitchen, humming to himself as he stirs what smells like a pot of chicken soup. He glances up when Jon enters to put the kettle on, smiles over Jon’s shoulder at Martin, but is otherwise quiet. Peaceful. Martin can’t remember the last time he saw Tim like this, relaxed and open and content. 

Martin takes a moment to acclimatise to the safehouse. He doesn’t remember much between stumbling through Helen’s door and sitting on the bathroom floor with Jon and Georgie. There’s an identical double mattress on either side of the one he’s lying on, although one is a complete mess of colourful bedsheets with the Admiral sleeping atop the pile while the other is a crisp and neat white affair.

Some distance away, there’s a rickety camping table where Georgie and Melanie are playing Battle Ships with a bottle of wine. Without looking, he Knows Melanie is winning. He can see the back of Basira and Daisy’s heads over the sofa. They seem to be discussing, in very serious detail, an old episode of _The Great British Bake Off_. Daisy thinks someone’s choux au craquelin are too flat; Basira disagrees.

How did he get here? He remembers the failed ritual, the rescue he had tried so hard to resist, but _this_ —he never expected to experience anything like this again. It’s too much. More than he deserves. He feels the cloying pull of the Lonely, the way it never just appears, never only wants his company; he has to want it back, to call upon in, while at the same time pushing away all other comforts.

_Not now_ , he thinks, at the same time as he _needs_ it. 

Martin clambers off the mattress. After five days, he’s shaky and unsteady, his balance thrown off further by his half-covered eyes. He puts his hand against the wall as he tries to make his way towards the bathroom.

Georgie looks up from the game of Battleships, a laugh fading into a kind smile when she notices Martin is up. “Alright, Martin?”

“Yeah, I just—” Martin gestures to the bathroom.

“Oh, yeah, of course. Go right ahead.”

In the bathroom, Martin uses the toilet, and washes his hands and uncovered half of his face, without looking in the mirror. The Lonely does not like mirrors. Martin always thought it was a lonely thing, looking in the mirror and seeing only a version of yourself that seems to disappoint, that seems to be always outside of the reach of improvement no matter how hard you try. But apparently, even that is a version of present personhood that the Lonely does not allow, because his reflection has been absent even when he looks each time the fog rolls in.

So he doesn’t dare look, not this time. He doesn’t want to be Lonely here.

Martin takes a deep breath and returns to the main room. If the cheer he heard while inside the bathroom is anything to go by, Melanie has won Battleships, but they’ve packed the game away now, still sitting at the table with their glasses of wine. Jon has joined them, with his own cup of tea in hand and the one he made Martin resting on the table.

Slowly, Martin makes his way over, taking the seat next to Jon.

“How are you feeling?” Georgie asks.

“I’m fine,” Martin says automatically. It feels rude, somehow, so he adds a formal: “Thank you.”

Georgie’s smile is soft and sad. She looks to Jon.

Jon looks back like he doesn’t know what to say. He blurts: “Tim is making soup.”

“Not just any soup!” Tim shouts from the kitchen. “Grandma Stoker’s chicken noodle soup, which I _guarantee_ cures all ills.”

“Even the eldritch variety?” Melanie asks.

Tim grins and winks. “Even the eldritch variety!”

“I—um—” Martin can’t say he’s not hungry, not when Tim looks so excited, so instead he tries to think of a diversion. “I need to explain.”

Basira switches off the television, prompting Daisy to exclaim in protest and try to make a grab for the remote control. The taller of the two, Basira holds the remote out of reach with one hand, bops Daisy on the nose with the index finger of her other, and then stands so she can join them at the table. There are enough rickety, mismatched chairs for all of them, Martin realises. He feels suddenly crowded, even though the chairs aren’t filled just yet.

“You don’t have to do this now,” Jon tells Martin quietly.

“No, I—I need to do this now. I _want_ to,” Martin replies.

“Tim, get over here,” Basira calls to the kitchen.

Tim says some quiet words of encouragement to the chicken noodle soup before taking the final available chair at the table, which is barely large enough to fit two of them around, let alone all seven.

“Right.” Martin takes a deep breath. “I don’t know where to start.”

“Wait one second,” Georgie says abruptly, standing.

Martin doesn’t watch where she goes. He watches the steam rise languidly from his tea and aches and aches and aches, thinking of how much he’s missed, how much he would have missed if his plan had worked. There’s a whisper of the Lonely at his ankles, but then—something warm and fluffy is circling him instead.

“Admiral, you wriggly little—” Georgie begins to berate, having apparently dropped the squirming cat after carrying him to the table form the bed, but she stops when the Admiral’s circling drives the growing fog away.

With each of the Admiral’s paces around Martin’s legs, the fog fades, until it disappears completely. Apparently satisfied with his work, the Admiral then launches himself into Martin’s lap. Martin tries to catch him, in case he loses his balance, but he settles without intervention, promptly falling back to sleep.

When Martin looks up, Jon and Georgie are sharing a small, relieved smile.

Martin never had pets, but he’s always loved animals. He buries his hands in the Admiral’s fur, and the soft vibrations of the cat’s breathing soothe him into something like relief. He made it. He’s here to explain, which is more and less than he set out to do, somehow.

“On the tape, I said… I said I was going to bind the Entities and destroy the Institute. I just didn’t know how, not then. Peter Lukas, he—he promised that if I helped him, he’d keep you safe. Or—not safe, but _isolated_. Out of Elias’s range.” Martin looks down at the Admiral. “I don’t think this house is as safe as you think it is. I think the only reason you haven’t been found is because of Peter. And I… I sent him to the Lonely. Permanently, I think.”

“This is my safehouse,” Daisy says, “And I might not have known about all this spooky shit when I was scouting it, but there’s something about this place. All of us have felt it. Basira worked it out.”

“It’s touched by every Entity but the Eye,” Basira tells Martin, “It’s off the grid. None of them can get a hold in this place, so it’s… neutral territory. A safehouse through and through.”

“I don’t know if that’s—okay.” Martin takes a shuddering breath. “Okay.”

“Keep going,” Basira prompts gently.

“In exchange for your safety, Peter wanted me to… he claimed only an Archivist could stop the Extinction from emerging, that I had to belong to the Eye but also be close enough to the Lonely to manage the task. When he mentioned the Panopticon of Millbank Prison, it sounded familiar, so I checked Tim’s spreadsheet about Smirke’s architecture—”

“See, I _told_ you that wasn’t a waste of company time,” Tim shoots at Jon.

Jon glares. Tim settles back into his chair.

“That’s when I knew I might not be coming back,” Martin murmurs, “I reasoned, if I could bring all of the Entities there, into balance like Smirke intended, and Watch them from the Panopticon—you know the original idea Jeremy Bentham proposed? That if prisoners couldn’t tell when they were or weren’t being watched, they’d have to self-discipline all the time. I was going to make the Entities feel that way, _beholden_ to the Archives. Always within my watch, so that they couldn’t step outside of the boundaries I set. So they couldn’t hurt anyone else. I’d be trapped, too, in the watchtower, but it felt… it would have been worth it, wouldn’t it?”

Martin can feel the tension in Jon’s body as he contemplates the question, but Martin means it to be rhetorical. He _knows_ it would have been worth it, because every person at this table—the people he loves and cares for most in the world—has been traumatised and hurt by the Entities in ways that they will never recover from, not even if Martin had succeeded.

“Elias seemed content to let me work with Peter. I decided I needed to research the Entities I was going to trap, understand the way they inflicted fear, and what better way to do that than to investigate and stop their rituals like we’d done with the Unknowing? I knew Elias would know what I was doing, but I banked on him not guessing my intentions other than that I was just continuing our work from before Yarmouth out of some—misguided loyalty? He let me, which is how I knew he had other plans for me. It wasn’t until Annabelle Cane visited the Archives that I finally got an understanding of what he wanted.

“She told me the truth: that Elias had killed Gertrude because she had worked out that the only way for a ritual to succeed was if _all_ the Entities were bought into the world at once. That’s why she never really made any move to stop the Dark’s ritual in Norway. But she _would_ have stopped any attempt to fulfil a complete ritual, which was counter to Elias’s plan since he’s actually—”

“Jonah Magnus,” they all say, even Jon, although he mumbles it half-heartedly.

Martin blinks. “You all know?”

“We had the pleasure of re-meeting him when we dashed to your rescue,” Tim explains.

“Tim punched him,” Melanie blurts.

“I wanted to be the one to tell him!” Tim protests.

“What happened to him?” Martin asks dully. He feels the Lonely start to creep back in, until he returns his focus to the Admiral dozing in his lap.

“It seems likely that he’s dead,” Jon murmurs.

“How?”

“Annabelle Cane used a Leitner, one I’ve encountered before: _A Guest For Mr. Spider_ ,” Jon replies, “If it has maintained its original function, then Elias—or Jonah, rather—met a rather unfortunate end.”

“That doesn’t sound like the end of that explanation,” Basira says.

“He… would have been eaten by a giant spider,” Jon adds.

“Oh.”

“Yes.”

Basira nods. “So he’s pretty dead.”

“One can only hope,” Melanie says cheerfully.

“He—he was going to—or Jonah—Jonah was going to take over _my_ body. After the ritual. He wanted me to…”

“Make the sky look back?” Basira finishes.

Martin flinches, his eyes snapping up to hers. “How did you know?”

“When you were feverish,” Basira replies, “You kept saying that.”

“He was going to bring about some sort of _apocalypse_. Only I could do it, since I’ve been touched by all the Entities. If I’d known that what he wanted, I—I might have reconsidered my approach. But I suppose that part was necessary for my plan, too.” Martin shudders. “He would have been the king of the ruined world, watching over all the suffering that the Entities wrought when they could come fully into our domain. I _knew_ he was attempting something close to what I was doing—close, but also the opposite, I guess? I just had to wait him out. Wait until he played his hand. I’d play along until the last moment, and then I’d—subvert the purpose of the ritual. Make it into a binding ceremony rather than a release.”

“So that’s what we interrupted?” Basira asks.

“Yeah.” Martin sighs. “I didn’t—I told Jude to burn down the Institute, _not_ the tunnels or the Panopticon. But I did promise her Elias—Jonah—and when she realised I’d lied…”

“She decided to take matters into her own hands.”

“It had the same outcome, though, didn’t it?” Tim says. “The Institute is _gone_ , and so is the Eye’s stronghold over terror. That’s—I mean, if there’s nowhere to _go_ with your fear, what’s the point? The Entities seem to love and hate having an audience. They’re gonna be reeling for a while, long enough for us to come up with a new plan to bind them or whatever.”

Martin says nothing. He buries his hands further into the Admiral’s fur, wishing he could curl up and sleep a dreamless sleep. He thinks he understands the lengths Oliver went not to dream.

“I sent you that tape because I owed you an explanation,” Martin says, “Not because I wanted to be saved. I hoped you would find it… after.”

Jon puts his cup of tea down. Martin doesn’t dare look up. “Martin—”

“What _other way_ is there?” Martin snaps. “The Panopticon is gone. What do you suggest we do, build another one? Are any of us architects? And where the _hell_ would we even put it? I don’t know about you, but I don’t exactly have a garden or land or money to buy land. This is ridiculous. We _can’t_ —”

“Martin,” Jon interrupts, “There isn’t going to be another Panopticon, because that version of a plan—if it can even be called that—requires _your_ sacrifice. That is unacceptable.”

Martin finally looks up. Jon’s eyes are angry, lit by a righteous defensiveness. “What’s my life against all the ones we could save?”

“ _Don’t_ say that.”

“So everything I’ve done—all the months I spent _alone_ , all the sacrifices I made—they’re all for _nothing_?”

“That’s _not_ what I’m saying.”

“Jon, I—” Martin chokes on his heart. “You were _dead_.”

“I came back,” Jon whispers.

“And I had to protect you, _all_ of you, because you _know_ the Entities don’t just give up. Sooner or later, they’ll come back, too.”

Martin rips up the sleeve of the jumper he’s wearing, which he realises is his own, from his flat, even though he hadn’t worn it in months. It’s not the time to be distracted. He holds up his wrist, shows them Annabelle’s mark.

“ _Look_. We haven’t got time. We haven’t delayed _anything_. Because Annabelle Cane is still out there, and she _knows_ how to complete a ritual. So it’s only a matter of time until someone else _tries_ , and how are we going to stop them now?”

“Annabelle _helped_ you,” Jon says, “You said yourself she was the one who told you why Elias killed Gertrude. The Web thrives in the world as it is now. Why would she act on the knowledge of how to change it?”

“I mean, she was gonna let you die in that godawful prison,” Tim adds, “If she wanted to pull off a full ritual, and you’re the only one who can do that, why would she want you to burn?”

Jon nods. “Before she took Jonah, she said she would leave us alone if we stayed out of her way.”

“And you trust that? She’s _up to something_ ,” Martin hisses, “I don’t know what this mark means, but—I think she—the Mother of Puppets isn’t finished with us.”

“She can’t find us here,” Basira says, “No one can.”

“How can you _know_ that?”

“Is there a way we could prove it to you?” Georgie offers tentatively.

“Do you know any friendly Avatars who might help us out?” Tim asks.

“No, that’s—oh.” Martin cuts himself off. He really hadn’t expected to need Oliver’s number, so he’d left it in his office during the fire, but the Eye supplies it to him, remembered perfectly, and he sighs. “Actually, there’s—there’s a guy called Oliver Banks. You might know him as Antonio Blake.”

“He’s an Avatar of the End,” Jon says with a hint of curiosity.

“Yeah, he—we met. A few weeks ago. He offered to help. Gave me his number.”

“Nice one, Martin!” Tim says. “No offense, Jon.”

Martin dares to glance at Jon, only to find Jon already looking at him. They both turn their heads away at the same moment, but Martin knows he wasn’t quick enough to hide his blush, since he could see Jon’s perfectly well in the moment before they hid their faces.

“Not like that,” Martin mumbles.

“Are you gonna call him, then?” Basira asks.

“I—I guess I could.”

“And if he proves that we’re safe here, for now, while we plan our next move?” Jon pushes. “Will you give up this _ridiculous_ crusade to sacrifice yourself?”

Martin grits his teeth. That familiar irritation, sharp and pressing, bubbles inside of him. It’s almost a relief to have it back, even as he pushes it down. “Jude Perry knows, too. How long until she tells the rest of the Lightless Flame?”

“We’ll stop them,” Jon replies with unwavering certainty, “Just like we did the Unknowing.”

“You and Tim nearly _died_ during the—”

“I’m aware, Martin,” Jon snaps, “But we’ll be more careful this time. _All_ of us.”

“Welcome to the club of valuing your own life and wanting to preserve it for as long as possible,” Tim quips, “Membership is mandatory.”

“Martin, please,” Jon murmurs, “Stay with us. With me.”

Martin lifts his eyes to Jon’s. Sees something new and tentative there, a sort of blossoming, begging affection. He wonders how he could nurture it, like a garden, tended to with gentle hands. He wonders how many flowers might bloom if he lives long enough to see it.

He _wants_ to live long enough to see it.

“I’ll call Oliver,” Martin says. It’s not quite a promise. But it’s a start.

“Drink your tea first,” Jon says, grumpy but fond.

Martin smiles, a real smile, and Jon returns it.

It’s definitely a start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so sorry!!!! i forgot the day again!!!!!! but here is the start of group safehouse shenanigans. expect things to get a little brighter for our faves over the next few chapters!!!! 
> 
> next update Friday, stay safe and have a great week <3


	21. no better version of me i could pretend to be tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A second date with death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER-SPECIFIC CONTENT WARNINGS: scars, food, second-hand embarrassment, discussions of previous relationships and breakups, spiders, arachnophobia, alcohol mention, panic attack mention, jealousy, the End (Entity), discussions of death and near-death experiences, loneliness, isolation, manipulation, the Web (Entity), the Desolation (Entity), burns, treating burns, referenced canonical character death (Martin's mother), paranoia.
> 
> Chapter title from "Jackie and Wilson" by Hozier.

“Jon, I know this is a big ask,” Georgie says, “But _relax_. We’re meant to be blending in.”

The café hums around them with the kind of background noise Jon thought he’d missed until they had been inside for long enough that it became irritating, if not borderline infuriating. There’s a first date happening between two equally pretentious people four tables away, a group of parents whose meeting is declining into a spiteful debate about breastfeeding taking up the sofas by the window, and a number of students and freelancers taping away on ubiquitous laptops as an acoustic cover of some old but newly trendy song drones from the speakers. Every now and again, the coffee machine starts grinding and screeching in a way that makes Jon think of the Flesh, and he can’t help flinching each time one of the barristers shouts the name of someone waiting for their take-away order.

So no, Jon will not _relax_. Least of all because they’re not here for a leisurely afternoon tea, even though Georgie seems to be doing her best to make this happen. They’re here to watch Oliver Banks from afar while he attempts to locate their safehouse, as—despite Jon’s scars and scowling, and Georgie’s unforgettable friendliness—they are, apparently, the least conspicuous members of their ragtag party of seven.

“How is _that_ blending in?” Jon asks, gesturing at Georgie’s dressed-to-the-nines seasonal hot chocolate, even though it’s March. She managed to cajole the barrister into concocting one of their frivolous Christmas specials, and the result is nothing short of a flamboyant creation that must be seventy percent cream.

“Oh, come _on_. I’ve had to put up with Basira’s coffees—which, I’m sorry, but I’ve had cough mixture less bitter—for, like, eight months.”

Jon sighs. Needing something to do with his hands, he unloads another packet of sugar into his tea while staring out of the window for any sign of Oliver Banks.

“This cake is _so good_. I’m gonna take some back for Melanie,” Georgie adds, “Oh, you should take some back for Martin, too.”

“Yes, I’m sure we’ll never hear the end of it if we forget to take some cake back for the others,” Jon agrees distractedly, still fixated on the window.

“Yes, but you should take some back for _Martin_.”

Jon finally looks away from the window. “Why Martin, specifically?”

Georgie licks chocolate icing from her fork with a look of deliberate innocence. “No reason.”

“ _Georgie_.”

“ _Jon_.”

Jon glares. “If you’re referring to…”

“If I’m referring to what, Jon?” Georgie quips, grinning. “Your _crush_?”

Jon blushes so furiously he reaches for his own mug and swallows a mouthful of tea even though it’s still far too hot. And not nearly as good as Martin’s.

Georgie drops her fork with a clatter that makes a few of the other patrons look over. “Ha! I just made Jonathan Sims _blush_.”

“Stop it.”

“So you admit it?”

“ _Stop_.”

“Please, Jon, after _everything_.” Georgie is suddenly very sincere. “Let yourself have this.”

“ _Crush_ is a juvenile and _inconvenient_ word—”

“Well, we can use other words.”

“—for something that is so—well, it’s—”

“Like— _feelings_? Hmm, no, that one’s also a bit, heh, _juvenile_ —”

“—something that feels so—”

“—oh, how about—?”

“Breakable,” Jon sighs, “No, that’s not right. Something that feels—bigger than I am, and yet… fragile.”

“Okay, none of mine were coming close to that.” Georgie smiles across the table at Jon. “Look, Jon, I’m not going to make you—you don’t have to tell me anything, I really will drop it if you’re uncomfortable. I’m just… I’m _happy_ for you. I mean, it wasn’t long ago that I thought you were gonna die. No offense.”

Jon frowns. “Why would I be offended by the stating of a fact?”

“I just mean, I don’t want you to miss something _so good_ for you because of the sort of emotionally constipated bullshit—”

Jon roll his eyes. “ _Thank you_ , Georgie.”

“Let me finish. We were both pretty messed up in uni, right? And—surprise, surprise—neither of us have magically healed from all that trauma we’ve been carrying since way back. Plus, we have some pretty serious eldritch horror stuff going on now, too, which is—not ideal?” Georgie laughs a little nervously. “But maybe we get to be happy, despite it all. Maybe we have to want it, in amongst all this chaos, but that doesn’t mean—that doesn’t mean it’s out of reach. Doesn’t mean it’s going to break the moment you finally hold it in your hands.”

Jon taps the handle of his mug. It’s a sunny yellow, and Jon is suddenly very sad that Martin is still too ill and afraid to join their excursion. “That was very poetic.”

“Yes, well, for all you complain about poetry, I _know_ you have a thing for—”

Jon throws his hands up in frustration “This is a _ridiculous_ conversation.”

“Sorry! I’m sorry.” Georgie rolls her lips to contain a laugh. “It’s just—I know this is a lot, but it’s also pretty exciting, right? _I’m_ excited for you.”

Jon stares into his tea, using the lack of eye contact to build up the courage to mumble, into the still-rising steam: “Well, what do you suggest I… _do_?”

“Are you asking _me_ for relationship advice?”

“Yes, well, you’ve always seemed… good at it,” Jon bristles, “You’re the one who initiated our—you know.”

“Our loving five-year relationship?”

“Yes.”

“That was only because—well, I was still getting used to this whole ‘no fear’ thing and it didn’t seem very scary to just, like, tell someone you were desperately in love with them?” Georgie giggles. “God, we were a _disaster_ , though. Like, you fully tripped down the stairs when I told you. And, yeah, that might not have been the right time, we were both a little drunk, but yikes. And then I was hiding this whole near-death experience from you, and not letting you meet my parents in case _they_ told you. And you were so _terrified_ of spiders that you would have panic attacks during seminars if you saw one, and also very committed to a career in investigating the paranormal even though any mention of spookiness on my part set you off for three hours about _academic vigour in regards to the esoteric_. We were seriously trying to have a normal relationship with all of that going on under the surface.”

Jon fixes Georgie with a firm look. “Are you quite done?”

“No, but I can be.”

“Was any of that meant to be helpful?”

“I don’t know. I guess what I’m trying to say is, it wasn’t great all of the time. We were both repressing a _lot_ , and dealing with things no one should go through alone. But I really was happy. I don’t look back at our relationship and wish it didn’t happen, you know?”

Jon allows himself a small smile. “I feel the same.”

“But I do think, even if we’d been honest, even if we’d gotten help earlier, it wouldn’t have worked out. You carried your mother’s ring around for—what, _three years_? And only because your grandmother basically forced you to. We weren’t right for each other,” Georgie continues, “And that doesn’t make it a waste of time. We were figuring things out as we went along and giving it a good go, and I’m grateful for that. I’ll always value our friendship.”

“I think I know where this is going,” Jon murmurs.

“Right. Yeah. I’ll get to the point.” Georgie takes a deep breath. “The point is, when you hold yourself to rules or expectations set by other people, it only makes things more complicated. We couldn’t have known any of this at the beginning, I don’t think. We wouldn’t have wanted to. Because it was fun. Because it was good. You can do that with Martin, too, just with a little more honesty and openness this time. Give it the best go you’ve got, and it will never be for nothing.”

“I don’t want to…” Jon gestures uselessly with his hands. “What if I hurt him?”

Georgie sighs. “Oh, Jon. You probably will, at some point. But not—not with intent, right? And I know you’ll do your best to fix it, to prove to him that your love is bigger than any moment of doubt or hurt or spite. That’s what matters.”

“That’s actually very good advice,” says an unfamiliar voice from beside the table.

Both Jon and Georgie nearly jump out of their seats at the sudden intrusion. Georgie swears loudly enough to earn a glare from the group of argumentative parents, and Jon spills tea all over the little biscuits that came with his order, which he was hoping to eat later.

A man stands next to their table, hands stuffed in his pockets and a friendly smile on his face, despite the way he seems weathered by worry. He’s taller than Martin, which is an unusual feat, and he’s wearing black boots, ripped jeans and a burgundy hoodie beneath a leather jacket. His dreadlocks are pulled into a ponytail, the edges of his head shaved and showing the multiple ear piercings he pulls off easily.

Objectively, he might be considered handsome. Jon knows this because enough people in statements—and Martin, for god’s sake, when describing who to look for on their stakeout—have noted him being so. Mostly, Jon just thinks he looks cool, untouchable, the sort of person who people gravitate easily towards. He feels a flash of _something_ , and is puzzled to find it’s jealousy. 

“Hello,” says the stranger, “I’m Oliver.”

“We were, um—that’s—I’m— _Jon_?” Georgie squeaks.

“How did you know to approach us?” Jon asks, feeling his guard jump up.

Oliver shrugs. “End’s intuition, I guess. Sorry. Didn’t mean to freak you our or anything, I just wanted to… say hi.”

“I can feel that, too,” Georgie replies, “It’s a little weird. But it’s nice not to be the only one, at least! I call us the ‘one foot in the grave’ crew.”

Oliver chuckles. “I like that.”

“So you found the safehouse,” Jon says, his voice flat.

“No, actually, I’ve been walking around this area for the last hour, looking. Went to the address Martin gave me and everything, and still no luck,” Oliver explains, “I think you’ve got a pretty safe house, if you ask me.”

_No one asked you_ , Jon thinks, pettily, even though it’s not true. Martin asked him. And Jon does value Martin’s opinion, which makes it even more frustrating that Martin’s opinion is that Oliver Banks is attractive.

God, maybe crush _is_ the right word for how he feels. Serves him right.

“Oh, that’s good.” Georgie grins. “Would you like a drink? The cake is really good, too.”

“Would that be alright?” Oliver asks, glancing at Jon. “If I joined you, that is?”

“Of course,” Georgie beams.

“Yes,” Jon adds through gritted teeth, because Georgie kicks him under the table.

“Great, I’ll just grab a drink. Can I get you two anything?”

“Oh, no, we’re fine. Thanks, though, Oliver!”

Oliver smiles and goes up to the counter. Georgie turns on Jon.

“Be nice,” Georgie snaps.

“I am!” Jon protests.

“What did he do wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“No, seriously, Jon, I’d like to know.”

“Drop it. Please.”

“Is it because he gave Martin’s his number? After they met for coffee? On Valentine’s Day?”

Jon says nothing.

“Oh, my god, it is, isn’t it?” Georgie nearly squeals. “You have it _bad_ , Jon.”

“Yes, I’m aware. And I’d be _very_ grateful if you would shut up about—oh, hello, Oliver.” Jon cuts himself off with a forced smile. “Back so soon.”

“Caught them during a lull, I think. The barrister said he’d bring it over.” Oliver slides a chair over from a nearby, empty table and sits down, crossing one leg over the other. “I hope I’m not stepping on any toes? By being here, that is.”

“Oh, no, of course not,” Georgie says, “It’s nice to finally meet you. You know, put a face to the name and all that. Isn’t it, Jon?”

“Yes,” Jon replies stiffly, feeling like a broken record.

“And we really should thank you. I mean, your statements were pretty influential in helping us to realise what was within the End’s power, and to bring Jon back from the edge, so…” Georgie smiles, soft and genuine. “From someone that loves Jon, thank you.”

Jon feels himself soften, and not just for Georgie’s benefit. He finally meets Oliver’s eyes, giving him a small but real smile. “Yes, I—I’m very grateful. Thank you.”

Oliver waves away his gratitude. “Oh, I’m just glad I could help. Feels like I don’t get to do that all that much, you know? So… it’s an honour, really.”

“So, you’re a full-on Avatar of the End. How is that?” Georgie asks. “If you, uh, don’t mind me asking?”

Oliver smiles. “I don’t mind. It’s… it’s a little lonely.”

Georgie’s face falls. “Oh, I’m—I’m sorry, I—”

“It’s alright. I’m fine.” Oliver’s smile stays. “It is what it is. I died. I got better. I sort of just—exist? I could probably do _more_ , as an Avatar, but it’s hard to make friends when you know how they’re gonna die.”

“Oof, we got off easy, huh?” Georgie says to Jon.

“I’m sorry,” Jon tells Oliver.

“Like I said, I’m okay with it. Took some getting used to, but nowadays it’s more like I no longer know _how_ to speak to people, not that I—can’t? If that makes sense?”

“Why did you choose to speak with us, then?” Jon asks.

“ _Jon_ ,” Georgie mutters.

“I meant no offense,” Jon hastens to add, “Just… curiosity.”

Oliver quirks an eyebrow. “From one reclusive eldritch embodiment to another?”

Jon actually laughs. “I suppose, yes.”

“I wanted to know how Martin is?” Oliver ventures, almost shyly. “The Institute burning down is pretty big news. Actual news _and_ on the… Avatar channels.”

At this moment, the barrister arrives with Oliver’s tea. He gives the man a dashing smile as he accepts his steaming drink.

“Avatar channels?” Georgie echoes once they’re alone.

“That makes is sound really official. It’s not. I mean, it would be great if we had a groupchat or something, but… I don’t know if that would be a good idea in practice. And besides, most people leave the End alone. We still hear most things—I guess the others don’t see us as much of a threat? At least, not to their attempts to complete their rituals, since we don’t have our own,” Oliver explains.

Jon tries to push as much calm into his voice as possible. “What have you heard about the Institute’s destruction?”

“It went down pretty well, I think. Elias didn’t exactly have a big fan base, and Peter Lukas wasn’t much better. Most people, ah… most people think the Archivist is dead, too.”

“ _Most_ people?” Jon pushes.

“The Desolation and the Web are the exceptions. It’s been quiet from them, but I’ve heard a few rumours. I think…” An odd, almost guilty look crosses Oliver’s face before it’s replaced by a more neutral expression. “Annabelle and Jude are involved in a kind of cat and mouse game. With the Eye losing its stronghold, the Web have a _lot_ of power, and the Lightless Flame are making some sort of play against them. They’ve always been natural enemies, but this feels like something else.”

Jon meets Georgie’s eyes across the table. _Of course_. The Lightless Flame are in a race against time to complete the full ritual.

“Am I missing something?” Oliver asks.

“Do you know Annabelle Cane?” Jon presses, even though he knows the answer. Martin told him as much.

“Yes.”

“And do you believe she’s satisfied with the world as it is?” Jon continues. “Satisfied enough that she would… prevent Jude Perry and her ilk from permanently changing it, if such a thing were, hypothetically, very possible now?”

“Oh. _Oh_.” Oliver blinks in shock. “Right. It’s serious.”

“Yep,” Georgie says, popping the p.

“I think so, then, yes,” Oliver says, “Yes.”

Jon leans forward in his chair. “Do you know what Annabelle wants with Martin?”

“No.” Oliver laughs nervously. “I’ve never met someone so consistent _and_ unpredictable as Annabelle. I thought the Mother would have made her play by now, but they must be distracted enough with the Lightless Flame. And if _I_ couldn’t find this safehouse of yours, Annabelle’s got no chance.”

Jon has never wished more for the power of Beholding. In this moment, he thinks he would welcome it back. “You’re sure?”

“Yes.” Oliver meets Jon’s eyes. “I want Martin to survive this, too, Jon. We’re on the same side.”

“The mark…”

“I have one, too. On my ankle. I’d show you, but…” Oliver looks around and chuckles nervously, even though most of the other tables seem absorbed in their own distractions and dramas. “It’s a symbol of allegiance and protection.”

“More like a symbol of possession,” Jon mutters.

“I’m free to make my own choices. Martin, too,” Oliver replies, his voice sharpening slightly, “Free will isn’t a myth, not even where the Web is concerned. There’s always a way out. Remember that.”

“What we really need is time,” Georgie interrupts, “To plan our next move. Can we trust the safehouse to give us that?”

Oliver nods, just once. “Yes. You have my word.”

“I believe you.” Georgie looks to Jon.

Jon nods in return. “As do I.”

* * *

“My first mark was the End,” Martin murmurs that night, “Did Oliver… tell you?”

Jon is standing over Martin, who sits on the closed toilet, wearing one of his knitted jumpers—the pink one with orange squares—and Georgie’s cat-eared dressing gown that they all seem to have borrowed at some point. A few days after rousing from his fever, Martin’s burn looks better, but Jon’s still been applying the antibiotic for him every evening and re-dressing it before they retreat in awkward silence to their shared mattress. Tim has been sleeping on the sofa.

Turning back to the first aid kit open on the sink, Jon schools his features into softness. Into readiness. “No. It wasn’t his story to tell.”

Martin’s expression folds into something sick and stricken. Jon notices it in cabinet the mirror. “Elias told me about your first mark. That wasn’t his story to tell, either.”

Jon digs through the first aid kit for a fresh dressing, not meeting Martin’s eyes. “You never listened to the tape, then?”

“It had ‘Do Not Listen’ written on it.”

“Oh.” Jon laughs, almost hysterically. “And you—didn’t? Listen, that is?”

“No,” Martin replies more emphatically, “Because it said—”

“‘Do Not Listen’. Right. Sorry.”

“The Eye, it… it didn’t _tell_ me. It just gave me this image of a door and a spider.”

“My first mark was the Web,” Jon tells him, “A Leitner was involved, too.”

“Ooh, that’s rough.”

“Well, a formative experience with the End doesn’t exactly sound pleasant.”

Martin is quiet. Jon finally turns away from the sink to find him staring down at the fluffy, power blue bathmat.

“No, it wasn’t,” Martin murmurs, “My mum…”

“Oh, Martin.” Jon places a hesitant hand on Martin’s shoulder. Squeezes with far less reticence. “I’m _so_ sorry.”

“I don’t—if you don’t want to hear about—”

“No, no, Martin, it’s—it’s fine. It’s… _good_. To talk about these things, I mean. Not your experience with—Christ, this is—” Jon shakes his head. “Martin, if you want to tell me about it, if you are able to, I will listen. And if you’re in a place to hear it, I will return the—well, favour is the wrong word, but…”

“I tell you my childhood eldritch trauma, you tell me yours?”

Jon huffs. “Yes, that about sums it up.”

“God, what a pair we are,” Martin mumbles with a small smile.

“Early encounters with horrors of the eldritch variety seems to be a rite of passage in this house, I’m afraid.”

Martin’s smile fades. “I can’t believe it’s… is it safe? Really?”

“Yes, Martin. I promise.” Jon tightens his hold on Martin’s shoulder again. “Oliver couldn’t find it. And he seemed genuine in his concern for you. I don’t think he would lie about this.”

“Right. No, you’re right. He wouldn’t… why would he lie?” Martin tries to smile. It falters. “Sorry, I’m just—it’s hard not to feel paranoid, in this position, you know?”

Jon chuckles. “I know, Martin. I really do.”

“Yeah,” Martin agrees, his smile genuine, “You do.”

Jon turns his face downwards to hide his blush. “Should I—ah, apply the—what’s it—?”

“Dressing?”

“That’s the one.”

“Yeah, go ahead.” Martin tilts his head slightly, so Jon can access the burn. “Thank you for this, by the way. I could—I can manage, if it’s—I know it’s an inconvenience to do this every night.”

“Martin,” Jon says, very seriously, “You are not an inconvenience. Not ever. It’s a—to me, this is a privilege. Looking after you is a privilege.”

Martin’s eyes stay fixed on a spot behind the bathtub, but his face flushes where it’s not already pink from the burn. “Oh.”

“I’ll, um…” Jon coughs awkwardly. “I’ll apply it now and then we can have that, um, that chat?”

“Yep. Sounds… good.”

That night, they curl around each other in the bathtub rather than on their shared mattress. Martin knows, at last, why Jon is so afraid of spiders. And Jon understands, with his whole heart, how brave Martin is, to have stayed kind and generous and open despite all he’s been through. Just before he falls asleep, Jon remembers Georgie’s words: _give it the best go you’ve got, and it will never be for nothing_.

Jon makes a promise to himself, then, one he’ll share with Martin eventually. He’s going to give this the best go he’s got, and he’s going to treasure every moment of it. Come what may, he’s in it now.

He smiles against Marin’s short hair as sleep claims him fully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look at me, remembering it's a Friday!!!!! anyway yes i thought it was very funny for Jon to be jealous of Oliver here since it's the other way around in canon. also Jon and Georgie friendship rights!!!
> 
> next update Friday. hope you all have a great week <3


	22. stuck in a storm we were born to ignore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scenes from a safehouse, Part 2.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER-SPECIFIC CONTENT WARNINGS: food, burns, swearing, alcohol, coma mention, divorce mention, second-hand embarrassment, grief/loss, mentions of canonical character death (Sasha), the Lonely (Entity), the Eye (Entity), isolation, invasion of privacy, suicidal ideation, withdrawal, discussions of break-ups. 
> 
> Chapter title from "Don't Take The Money" by Bleachers.

Jon is watching, drifting a little, as Tim and Martin eat cereal at the camping table in companionable silence. It feels unbelievably domestic, like some secret scene they don’t deserve despite its banality. The kettle boils in the background, a bubbling, rattling noise that hardly disturbs Jon’s quaint thoughts about friendship and love.

“Hey, Martin,” Tim says, shattering the illusion. He lifts his index finger from the spoon he’s holding and gestures vaguely at Martin’s face, where the burn is no longer covered by a dressing. “You’ve got a whole Prince Zuko thing going on there.”

Over the back of the sofa, Daisy narrows her eyes at Martin until she seems to find what she’s looking for. “Yeah, I see it.”

“Pretty cool, right? The burns from Yarmouth mostly missed my face, but I have one on my shoulder that sort of looks like Aang’s arrow. Here, I’ll—” Tim starts tugging down the collar of his pyjama top.

“What on _earth_ are you talking about?” Jon asks from the kitchen, where he’s fixing teas and coffees for them all.

“Wait, Jon.” Tim drops his spoon into his cereal. “Don’t tell me you haven’t seen _Avatar: The Last Airbender_ , the original animation that aired on Nickelodeon between 2005 and 2008.”

“The distinction is important,” Basira says from where she’s sitting on the floor in front of the sofa, out of sight but apparently not earshot.

“Thank you, Basira,” Tim preens, “At least we have one true fan in our midst.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Tim, and frankly, I don’t care.” It’s too early in the day for this sort of interaction. Jon needs caffeine. And sugar.

“No, Jon, I actually think you’d like it.”

“I agree,” Martin adds quietly, which Jon admits is more encouraging than Tim’s opinion.

“Seriously, though, boss, how old _are_ you? Let’s settle this once and for all.”

“I’m twenty-nine,” Jon replies, but this unsettles him for some reason. He frowns. Has he forgotten his own age? “Actually, I’m not so sure…”

“Sorry to have to tell you this, Jon,” Georgie says from where she’s propped up in bed, cuddling the Admiral, while Melanie still dozes beside them, “But you missed your birthday when you were in a coma.”

Jon sets to work filling the waiting mugs with boiling water. “Well, then, I suppose I’m thirty. And no matter; I don’t celebrate birthdays anyway.”

Tim, almost fully committed to finishing his cereal again, drops his spoon a second time at Jon’s statement. “Oh, no. No, no, no. That’s just not true.”

“ _Tim_.”

“You are disrespecting me, you are disrespecting Martin, you are disrespecting Sasha, you are disrespecting the very lovely man named Joseph from the bakery near the Institute who made your cake, you are disrespecting all versions of the Happy Birthday song, you are disrespecting—”

“Wait, no way,” Georgie says, “He let you guys throw him a birthday party?”

Jon sighs. “It was a small—and _unprofessional_ —gathering in the Archives, a few months before—”

“Things got properly spooky,” Tim finishes with a solemn nod.

“He _never_ let me throw him a birthday party,” Georgie protests.

“I was _going_ to say,” Jon continues, shutting the fridge with a little too much force after fetching the milk, “That it was a few months _before_ I was fully able to make my stance clear. Which is to say, a few months before you realised any and all events are best left uncelebrated if I’m involved.”

Tim nods again, cereal apparently forgotten. “Basically, a few months before he fully demonstrated what a proper bastard he is.”

Jon uncaps the milk and calmly tops up the teas, except for Daisy’s camomile. “In as many words, yes.”

“That’s not true,” Martin pipes up, at last, his voice croaky from disuse and smoke inhalation but no longer lacking purpose, “You were a lot of fun on my birthday! I enjoyed hearing about the, um, the emulsifiers. And you even danced with Rosie at that one Christmas party, I think?”

“Yeah, because Sasha got him drunk,” Tim says.

“The Christmas party you are referring to was the same evening as your unauthorised shindig—”

“Oh, my _god_ , Jon.”

“—and if I _was_ drunk, it was only because I’d been drinking wine since before eleven o’clock that morning.”

“And you only danced with Rosie because her divorce had just been finalised and she was sad about being there alone for the first time since she started working at the Institute,” Martin adds, “It was really sweet, actually.”

“Oh, I remember this now!” Tim points at Martin again. “You were _jealous_. And I had to tell you about the whole messy divorce thing so you wouldn’t _pine_ for the rest of the—”

“Tim!” Martin squeaks, his face flushing.

“Wow,” Daisy whistles from the sofa, “That’s pretty tragic.”

“Yeah, and they were only dancing to, like—”

“It was ABBA,” Jon and Martin say at the same time, meet eyes across the warehouse, and then promptly look away with matching blushes.

Georgie smirks “Which one?”

“ _Dancing Queen_ ,” Jon replies, at the exact moment that Martin says: “ _Voulez-Vous_.”

There’s a moment of silence.

“Oh, ho, ho,” Tim quips, “And here we appear to have stumbled across an _interesting_ conflict of opinion between two individuals with _very_ different stakes in what song it really was.”

“Odds on,” Daisy says, “Tim, do you remember?”

“No. I bet Sasha probably—” Tim seems to choke, his smile falling, as if he finally realises how many times he’s said Sasha’s name as if she’ll join in at any moment. He coughs and tries again. “I _can_ tell you it wasn’t _Waterloo_ , because that’s my favourite and I remember complaining that the DJ didn’t play it.”

“Does it matter?” Jon mutters as he stirs sugar into his and Martin’s teas.

“No,” Martin mumbles, in a way that makes Jon think it does.

“Yes,” Tim insists, in a way that makes Jon want to slam his head against the kitchen counter.

“Okay, okay, I’m still stuck on the fact that _Jon_ celebrated his _birthday_ ,” Georgie says.

“It won’t happen again,” Jon warns on the way to returning the milk to the fridge.

Tim grins. “Nope.”

“Do _not_ get any ideas.”

“Too late. There’s only one thing for it: we’re throwing you _another_ birthday party.”

“Are you trying to _punish_ me?”

“Of course not!”

“I think we could all do with an excuse to have a good time,” Georgie admits, “And, if you need an incentive, it is actually the Admiral’s birthday next Saturday.”

“The only birthday worth celebrating,” Jon huffs.

Jon picks up Basira’s coffee and Daisy’s chamomile tea, taking both over to where the pair are sitting in their usual state of close but not clinging togetherness by the sofa. Daisy thanks him softly, and Basira gives him a nod of gratitude when she looks up from her book.

“Can we _please_ have a party?” Tim whines.

Jon returns to the kitchen, collecting Georgie’s very milky morning coffee and Tim’s hot chocolate. He gives Georgie her coffee, smiling smugly when the Admiral wriggles out of her arms to rub his head against Jon’s leg and follow him to the table, where he sets Tim’s hot chocolate down a little forcefully. When the Admiral jumps into Martin’s lap, and Martin makes a small and surprised sound of joy, Jon has to rush back to the kitchen before he loses himself inside the soft, ticklish feeling stirring in his chest.

“I’m in,” Daisy says.

“If Daisy’s in, so am I,” Basira adds.

“I’m always up for a party,” Georgie declares, “And I’m sure I can convince Melanie when she _finally_ wakes up.”

Jon takes his and Martin’s teas over to the table, settling in one of the rickety chairs. He looks determinedly at his mug, rather than Martin, even as their hands brush very briefly when Martin takes the tea from him.

“Martin?” Tim prompts. “You in?”

“Yeah,” Martin says, at last, “Alright.”

They all turn to look at Jon.

“ _Fine_ ,” Jon sighs, “But it’s the Admiral’s birthday we’re celebrating. _Not_ mine.”

Tim cheers. “This is going to be _so much fun_. I’m gonna plan a whole playlist—wait, has anyone actually been paying for ad-free Spotify during this whole ‘on the run’ thing? Oh, and we should definitely get cake. And drinks! Georgie, what does the Admiral—?”

“Dear lord,” Jon mutters, finally glancing at Martin, who gives him a shy smile in reply, “What have I agreed to?”

“It might be fun,” Martin replies quietly.

“Yes.” Jon smiles back. “If you’re there, then it… might be. Fun, that is.”

Martin looks away, hiding another blush. “Good.”

“Good,” Jon echoes.

Tim nearly leaps out of his chair. “Oh, you know what I just realised! This place is sound proof. No noise complaints, baby!”

* * *

Martin and Basira sit opposite each other at the table. They’re been immersed in separate tasks for some time now—Basira copying out notes from an old text on cults, while Martin slowly finishes the strawberry jelly Jon made for him in the hopes it would be easy to eat without stretching his burn, since that’s what his grandmother gave him when he had one of his wisdom teeth taken out.

But Martin knows they’ve been heading towards a particular conversation for a while now. It doesn’t surprise him when Basira closes the book, clicks the pen away, and _looks_ at him.

“There’s a Leitner,” Basira says.

“I know the one,” Martin replies, wondering how Basira knows it, too.

“Did it burn with the rest of the Institute?”

“No. I gave Rosie a few things to take with her when she evacuated,” Martin replies, “She knows not to read the Leitner. Or even open it. Ever.”

“Did you compel her?”

“No. I didn’t think I needed to. She’s… seen enough to know I was being serious.”

Basira sighs. “I think Tim still hates me a bit for involving her.”

“She was the one who stayed in contact with you. When I… didn’t go and see Jon. It was as much her choice as yours.” Martin twirls the small spoon he used to eat his jelly, feeling a stab of intense guilt. It hurts; he’s still getting used to these moments when the Lonely seems like a distant, impossible state of being. “She wanted to know how he was more than I did. And she wanted to help.”

“Whether that’s true or not—any of it—I kept contacting her even though I had other methods.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t think you were the only Archivist in waiting,” Basira says, “If that’s what we’re calling it.”

Martin looks up at her at last. “ _Oh_.”

“I gave in to the Eye. Fully.” Basira looks away, then back, and Martin can _See_ it in her. “Since Yarmouth, I started Knowing things I shouldn’t, like what the guy in front of me was going to order at Costa. Or when I was visiting the hospital, I’d look at a piece of equipment and wonder how the hell it worked and suddenly I’d Know that _mechanical ventilation is used to_ —you get it.

“But I wasn’t pointing it at anything. I wasn’t _using_ it. It was a background issue. I mean, there was a lot of other things going on. I was grieving for Daisy, because the Eye just showed me darkness when I reached for her, and I assumed that meant she was dead. And you were…. Well, that day, when you wouldn’t come to Cambridge with me to see Jon, I was ready to give up on you. I really was done, even when I said—”

“ _I think I should be keeping a closer eye on you than ever_ ,” Martin quotes.

“Yeah. But then I saw Jon, and Tim, and I sat with them both for a while. I tried talking to them. I read somewhere that was good for coma patients, and who did I have left? I’m done with the police. I can’t drag my family into all of this. And with Peter Lukas lurking around, I didn’t think it was a good idea to let myself get properly lonely.

“The thing is, when I talked to them, both of them, a tape recorder would click on. I never bought them with me; they were just _there_. I started practicing whether I could direct it, Know things on purpose. I… forced a few statements. Looked into some strangers’ business when I was sitting next to them on the bus. I told myself I needed to know what you were doing, whether you’d gone fully to Elias and Peter’s side or if there was a long game.

“It wasn’t easy. Pretty exhausting, to be honest. One time, when I was trying to get close to you, I accidentally overheard a conversation between Elias and Peter. They were talking about the Flesh, about trying to organise some sort of attack on the Institute in order to mark you. That’s when I knew I had to get out. I went to Georgie and Melanie, took them to the safehouse, and I got Helen to pick up Jared Hopworth after he got in trouble up in Glasgow. Didn’t realise I was playing right into Elias’s hands with that one, though. Sorry about that.”

“No, it’s okay,” Martin says, “I get why you left the Institute now. Thought it was just… well, me. Being unfriendly and all that.”

“I know I… I gave the impression of having given up on you,” Basira tells him, “And there are times when I did. I can’t lie. But, Martin, I didn’t need the Eye to tell me that we’d gone through enough, all of us, together, and that we needed to make it out as a team, too. So I kept trying to Watch, never getting all the way through. Most of the time it would just direct me to the statements you left in particular places. I’m really grateful for that, by the way. Made my visits to the Institute a lot more efficient.”

Martin smiles, almost laughs. Of course, amidst it all, Basira could still care about efficiency. “You’re welcome.”

“When you got Daisy back, though, I realised the Eye wasn’t reliable. I mean, obviously, but in that—it might give you something, but it’s not necessarily the absolute truth? Or, at least, it’s always open to interpretation. Daisy was in the dark, but she wasn’t dead. She was in a coffin, but she wasn’t gone. The Eye gave me the information and I gave it meaning.

“So I knew I needed someone else to watch you, just in case I Saw something and interpreted it wrong again. So I used the Eye and Rosie, since she kept in contact with me. That’s the how I knew about you researching the Entities, getting a feel for them all. And in Norway, with your guard down, I _finally_ Knew for certain that you had a plan. I couldn’t see the shape of it, just that it was there. You were still you. Obviously, I would have preferred it if you’d come back to the safehouse with me then, but I really wanted to trust you.

“I took a back seat after that, focused on getting Jon back and well. I really shouldn’t have been so complacent, but I didn’t realise your plan involved burning the fucking Institute to the ground while permanently binding yourself inside the Panopticon. No, I didn’t realise that part until it was too late and we were listening to what was basically your last will and testament on tape. And the worst thing? The Eye was still telling me, _oh, that’s a good idea, that’ll work, that might be the only way_. I had to override it to get into Helen’s tunnels with Jon and Tim. It was like—the pull of knowledge, the wanting a theory to be proven, was more powerful than the desire to help a friend? Like I could just sit back and Watch it all happen and be satisfied.”

“I know the feeling,” Martin murmurs.

“Really? You’ve stayed… pretty human, despite it all.”

“Have I?” Martin smiles humourlessly. He feels suddenly very cold. “Sometimes, I really did think about just letting the world end. There would have been a lot of… food. As much as I _hate_ calling the statements that.”

“That’s why I need the Leitner,” Basira says, “Maybe we both do.”

“It’s been in Artefact Storage since Gerard Keay and Gertrude started working together. I think Gertrude stopped him from destroying it in case it really could do what it appeared capable of, but either they never got around to testing it or they disproved it,” Martin explains, “Since Gertrude was gonna follow in Eric’s footsteps with the whole… gouge your eyes out thing.”

“You can’t just… Know?”

“Well, can you?”

“I’ve tried. No luck.”

“Same here.”

“So we either have a Leitner that can switch or outright remove a mark by the Entities, or just a plain old book with absolutely zero value besides that stupid stamp in the front.”

“Well, technically, _Rosie_ has it.”

“I promised the others I would stop talking to Rosie.”

“They don’t know what we do.”

“Which part?”

“Take your pick: the part where she’s just as marked by the Eye as any of us. The part where she promised her dad that she would never burry her head in the sand. The part where she absolutely _hates_ Elias and occasionally imagines very violent scenarios involving him while still smiling at visitors.”

Basira shakes her head with a laugh. “God, I love that girl.”

“She’s pretty cool.”

“She thinks you’re dead,” Basira says bluntly.

“Could you… maybe tell her I’m not? When you drop by to pick up the Leitner?” 

Basira narrows her eyes. “Tell her yourself. I think you owe her an apology. Or three.”

“I’m…”

“A coward?”

“ _Basira_.”

“You faced down the end of the world and you’re scared about seeing Rosie again?”

“Maybe.”

“You’re coming with me.”

“Alright. Fine. I’ll come. When it’s safe.”

Basira looks away again. “How long… how long do you think Daisy has left? I can’t bring myself to Look.”

“I don’t know,” Martin murmurs, “I think clawing back from the Hunt a second time drained her a lot. She’s worse than before, even if she’s doing a better job of hiding it. Trying to enjoy borrowed time.”

He flinches. He’s veered into the territory of things he shouldn’t Know. But Basira just keep staring elsewhere.

“She can’t gouge her eyes out. Or burn anything down. She’s stuck with the Hunt, unless this Leitner can help or until…”

“Until the withdrawal kills her.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry, Basira.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“We’ll figure it out.”

“We’d better,” Basira says, “And until then, you’re the only one who gets it. I know Jon was with the Eye, too, but—it seemed to make him more human, somehow? I think I could get lost in it, and I don’t want that to happen to either of us. So… solidarity?”

Martin nods. “Solidarity.”

“Right. That was…” Basira clears her throat. “Thanks.”

Martin blinks, and it’s like putting his glasses on after that strange between-time of removing his contact lenses and trying to locate them in his bedroom. The rest of the room returns to full focus. He can hear the television where Daisy and Georgie are watching an old sitcom, but there’s a different kind of silence to the safehouse. He realises everyone’s eyes are on them. Melanie is no longer clattering around the kitchen for snacks, Jon has put _Pride and Prejudice_ to one side, Tim has stopped going through Georgie’s old iPod Nano for songs to play during the party on Saturday, and Georgie and Daisy no longer seem invested in what Martin now realises is an episode of _Bewitched_.

“What?” Basira asks with a frown.

“You guys just stared at each other for, like, twenty minutes straight without saying a word and without blinking?” Tim says. “And you didn’t respond to anything we said or did?”

“Oh.” Martin glances at Basira, who shrugs. “Sorry.”

“Were you… talking?” Jon asks from where he’s sitting up against the wall, legs outstretched across the mattress.

“Jon, you watched them just sit there.”

“We were, um, there was… some communication going on,” Martin stammers.

“I’ll explain another time,” Basira adds.

“That would be helpful,” Georgie says cheerfully.

“That was _very_ weird,” Tim whistles, “I got so distracted I added _Only Time_ by Enya to this party playlist. Speaking of which, any reason why that was one of your most played song of 2012, Georgie?”

It’s at this moment that the Eye decides to supply Martin with some particularly unhelpful information: in April 2012, Georgie and Jon finally called it quits after months of arguments. There were tears, there were hurtful words neither of them really meant, there were awkward discussions about the Admiral. There was a select combination of songs that Georgie would put on her loudest speaker after work. She would then proceed to dance around the flat, which would at least distract her from the desire to call Jon, although she would still alternate between crying and feeling incandescently angry.

Martin is very sorry he knows this information. He glances across the table and finds Basira much in the same position. Solidarity, indeed.

Georgie buries her head in one of the sofa pillows with a groan. “I knew I shouldn’t have given you full access to my old iPod.”

Melanie shimmies over from the kitchen. “I’m _very_ curious about this.”

“What else was most-played that year?” Tim says. “Gloria Gaynor, _I Will Survive_. Not bad. Oh, my god: _End of the Road_?”

Melanie laughs. “Boyz II Men?”

“Of course.”

“I hate this,” Georgie mumbles.

“ _Irreplaceable_. Classic Beyoncé. I approve. Justin Timberlake, _Cry Me a River_ , also very good. Oh, No Doubt!”

“Which one?” Melanie asks.

“ _Don’t Speak_. Oh, here’s another banger: _Survivor_ , Destiny’s Child.”

“Christ, Georgie, what was going on for you in 2012?” Melanie asks. “We didn’t know each other then, right? Was that it? The absence of me?”

“2012?” Jon frowns. “That was the year we—oh.”

Tim’s face lights up. “I’ve found your breakup songs, haven’t I, G?”

Melanie wrinkles her nose. “I am no longer enjoying this.”

“Okay, great, then we can drop the conversation!” Georgie squeaks.

“Jon,” Tim says, drawing out the middle vowel, “What was _your_ breakup song?”

Jon promptly picks up _Pride and Prejudice_ , presumably so he’ll have something to hide behind. Martin finds it unbelievably endearing. “Didn’t have one.”

“You’re lying,” Melanie sing-songs.

“I don’t listen to music,” Jon adds.

“Not true,” Georgie joins in.

“You _must_ have a breakup song,” Tim presses, “Everyone does.”

“I do not,” Jon insists.

“It was Roxette,” Martin blurts, before his mind catches up with his mouth, “ _It Must Have Been Love_.”

There’s a moment of silence. And then Melanie and Tim descend into giggles, Georgie looks curious, Daisy is glancing over the back of the sofa in vague disapproval, and Basira simply cringes.

“Martin!” Jon says, shocked.

“Sorry.” Martin scrunches his face up in apology. “It just sort of… happened.”

“Okay, I hate our eldritch Eye god as much as the next person, but that. Was. _Amazing_.” Tim grins across the room at Martin. “Thank you for that. Thank you so very, very much.”

“I am never going to live this down,” Jon mutters.

“I’m really sorry, Jon,” Martin tells him.

“It’s only fair,” Georgie says from the sofa.

“I really didn’t mean to just Know it,” Martin continues, blushing.

“It’s alright, Martin,” Jon says with a put-upon sigh, but there’s the curl of a fond smile at the edge of his mouth that makes Martin’s stomach flip.

Tim can still barely contain his excitement. “I love my life. Jonathan “I will skin you alive if you do not utilise Harvard referencing in your text messages” Sims has a _breakup song_. And not just _any_ breakup song, but: _it must have been love, but it’s over now.”_

_“It must have been good_ ,” Melanie joins in, in time with Tim, “ _But I lost it somehow_.”

“I _will_ cancel this party,” Jon pledges.

Tim gasps. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“I would.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I would.”

Martin smiles. His heart feels wonderfully whole, in this moment, and he lets himself sit peacefully amongst the friendly chaos of the safehouse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> they're having a PAAARTYYY!!!!! this chapter was so much fun to write :')))
> 
> hope everyone has a great week!!! next update Friday <3


	23. i love everybody because i love you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scenes from a safehouse, Part 3.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER-SPECIFIC CONTENT WARNINGS: the Eye (Entity), surveillance, possessiveness, guilt, the Lonely (Entity), food, specific discussions about attitudes towards food and eating, ableism (some of it internalised), implied/referenced child abuse and neglect, knives, discussions of canonical character deaths (Melanie's father, Martin's mother), grief/loss, eye trauma, manipulation, swearing. 
> 
> Chapter title from "Strawberry Blond" by Mitski. Yes that's the second Mitski chapter title. I can't help it!!! It might not even be the last!!!!

Jon has three moods.

The first is that he is absolutely, overwhelmingly, joyfully grateful for the fact that they are alive and together, that Tim smiles at him now, that Melanie and Georgie will murder each other at Battleships and then cuddle for three hours afterwards, that Martin is _home_.

The second is that he _will_ murder the next person who starts singing Roxette when he emerges from the shower or swaps the sugar for salt while he’s making tea or tries to interrogate him about his time at university. Living with six other people in one warehouse is _exhausting_ , and his social battery is suffering. On these days, he goes for solo walks around the nearby park, giving permission beforehand for Martin to Watch but not Know him.

And his third mood, the most common, is that he could take or leave all company except for Martin’s. It’s a clawing, selfish, green-eyed _need_ to have Martin all by himself. He tries to push this possessive side of himself down. Sometimes, it comes about because he feels guilty for being happy when so much bad has happened, might still happen, when they’ve each lost so much. Or because he’s tried, helplessly, to induce himself to feel fear. Or because he’s conflicted about the way he feels about Martin. He doesn’t want or need to share these thoughts—in fact, he thinks it’s best if he keeps them very much to himself—but he doesn’t want to wallow in them alone. If he spends long enough with Martin, sometimes he even manages to stop the spiral before it starts.

When Jon falls into one of these moods, they tend to retreat together to the bathroom and lock the door. One afternoon, they sit together in the dry, empty bathtub, limbs tangled awkwardly, and sip tea while they talk about small and easy things.

Most of their conversations have been like this since the one about their first marks. Difficult conversations tend to pull the Lonely back around Martin’s shoulders. They put Jon’s defence mechanisms up, turn him cold and closed-off. They hurt.

Martin is gesturing as he speaks. “What I’m saying is, best before dates exist purely to protect manufacturers, they’re not actually—”

“Yes, but what _I’m_ saying is, how can smell—or any individual sensory experience—be objective? It can’t, so surely there is no standardised way, beyond a best before date, to know whether a product has gone off.”

“Yeah, but like—maybe you don’t want to _eat_ that banana as it is, but you could still make it into banana bread, and that works even though the banana _looks_ bad?”

“So you’re proving my point.”

“How am I proving your point?”

“As you pointed out, the individual decision whether or not to eat a food product is based on perception. I don’t know about you, but I haven’t trusted my sensory input since—”

“Jon, you’re not seriously telling me that the Spiral or, god forbid, the _Stranger_ is going into people’s houses and messing with their ability to tell whether they need to throw away their bananas?”

Jon meets Martin’s eyes across the cramped bathtub. All at once, the righteous anger that had been building during their argument falls away. He doesn’t know which of them laughs first, the difference is indistinguishable, but soon they’re both falling into each other in what Jon would describe as _giggles_. And he doesn’t mind.

“God, is this really our life?” Martin says, shaking his head, but he’s still laughing.

“I think so,” Jon replies, mockingly solemn.

“It’s not so bad, I guess.”

“I suppose I could be convinced to _try_ banana bread.”

“Wait, you’re telling me you’ve never had it? Was _that_ the point of this conversation?”

“Martin, as I told you, I _don’t_ , on principle, eat food beyond its best before date.”

“I’m not gonna force you to break that rule.”

“When you call it a ‘rule’—”

“Sorry, principle, then. I’m not gonna force you to compromise your principles.”

“I know I can seem— _rigid_. Set in my ways. And I know that has caused issues in the past,” Jon says, feeling suddenly like they’re veering into dangerous territory with the direction of this conversation, “So I will try to be more… open to different perspectives or ways of doing things. Or, at least, _your_ perspective and ways of doing things. Do not tell the others.”

“Jon, I don’t mind. Honestly.”

“My grandmother did,” Jon admits. He is trying too hard to be casual, but the statement comes out more as sulking rather than matter-of-fact. “She insisted it was wasteful to throw anything away, which I understand.”

“Oh, is that what this—? Right.” Martin shifts closer, even though there’s hardly any space left in the bathtub. “Jon, there’s… I mean, the myth of individual food waste is a _whole_ other discussion, but if, for whatever reason, you _can’t_ eat something, that’s okay. You can be the _pickiest_ eater in the entire world—and I hate that saying, anyway—and I’d still…”

Jon dares to look at Martin. He hopes he isn’t visible blushing. “You’d… what?”

“I’m just saying,” Martin mumbles, looking away, “That I’m not going to abandon you because you’re fundamentally opposed to the idea of banana bread.”

“Right. Well… thank you, Martin. I appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome.”

Jon doesn’t know what compels him to blurt it in that moment: “I can’t feel fear.”

Martin looks at him again. “Oh?”

“There’s a… hole where my fear used to be. I can make a good estimate of it, I suppose. I know when I _should_ feel it. Nervousness, urgency, anger, uncertainty—they are all adjacent enough to fear that, together, they almost form an approximation of it. But it’s not the same as it used to be.” Jon sighs, reaches for his tea resting on the rim of the bathtub. “Perhaps it’s more accurate to say that I don’t feel _terror_ anymore.”

“Does it bother you?” Martin asks softly.

“It does feel… strange.”

Martin’s hand moves absently to his side. “Like missing a rib or two?”

“Yes. I’ll get by, but I feel the absence.”

“Hmm. Definitely like missing a rib or two.”

“Other people’s emotions, I find harder to read or, more accurately, I find it hard to understand the _why_ of a feeling once I’ve identified it,” Jon barrels on, “You know better than most that I put up… shields. A sort of ubiquitous approach because most people seem—incomprehensible?”

“I think I get it,” Martin says, “I mean, it’s very you, isn’t it? To put up a wall against things you don’t understand. And that’s okay.”

“It is easier, for me, to decipher the cause and effect of my own feelings. About more than just… eldritch fear gods. Or, at the very least, I am _trying_. And I think it might be working?”

Martin gives him a small smile. “That’s good, Jon. Thank you for… thanks for telling me.”

“What I’m trying to say, Martin, is that I… have feelings. For you. That I am working towards—unravelling? No, that’s not the right—I want to understand them fully, but I will _try_ to share them.” Jon takes a deep breath. “I want to try. One day. Soon, hopefully.”

Martin’s smile grows impossibly softer. “Oh, Jon, there’s no—it’s not a race, or a, I don’t know, a deadline? We can figure it out at whatever speed works.”

Jon feels his heart flutter as he looks fully at Martin. “You’re sure?”

“Of course. Always.”

Jon feels himself smile, too, at last. “Thank you, Martin.”

Martin slowly leans his head against Jon’s shoulder, a slow, inching closeness as he relaxes in fractions against Jon. “This okay?”

Jon rests his cheek on the crown of Martin’s head. “Yes. More than—it’s—”

“I think I understand,” Martin says, “Some things just _are_.”

Jon closes his eyes. He could stay here forever, he thinks. “I find that somewhat infuriating.”

Martin’s body rumbles gently against Jon’s as he chuckles. “Sorry. I don’t make the rules.”

“I dread to think what regime of anarchy we would live under if you did.”

“I commit arson _twice_ and I’m never going to live it down?”

“I’m sure it was more than twice.”

“ _Jon_.”

“ _Martin_.”

And somehow, they talk until long after everyone else has gone to sleep.

* * *

“Do you ever just want to scream?” Melanie says one day, unprompted, when she and Martin are in the middle of making dinner for everyone.

“Um… not right now?” Martin replies, because he’s been chopping vegetables for the last ten minutes in relative peace, enjoying the familiar, repetitive motion, the gentle thud of the knife meeting the wood.

“I don’t mean right now.” Melanie seems to tense for a moment, halting in her stirring of the spaghetti, before taking a deep breath. “I just mean—can I—do you mind if I talk about my dad?”

“Oh.” Martin resumes the chopping, but more gently, slowly. He thinks Melanie is more relaxed when she can hear he isn’t watching her directly. “Yeah, of course. Go ahead.”

“So, um, when the care home called me, I just autopiloted my way through. A lot of nodding, even though I was on the fucking phone. It’s funny, isn’t it, how much people communicate with their bodies? I didn’t really realise until…” she gestures at her eyes. At some point, she’d stopped wearing the pink strip of cloth over the wounds, which have mostly healed now, no bandages needed. “Afterwards, I stood in the middle of my kitchen and all I wanted to do was _scream_. It was in my throat, almost _choking_ me. I was—god, all I could think was, if I scream right now, are the neighbours going to call the police? I couldn’t sleep. It kept me awake, this need to just— _scream_.

“The same with when Elias did his mind thing on me. I was in a daze afterwards. Went into the toilet and cried until I couldn’t anymore. Didn’t want anyone to see me, to _ask_. And then Basira came in and mentioned drinks and I completely shut her down just so I could be alone again. When I looked at myself in the mirror, after she left, the urge was back. I just wanted to…”

“I think I understand,” Martin murmurs. He slides the peppers he’s been slicing into the tomato sauce on the hob next to the spaghetti Melanie is still tending to. “I felt… I was angry, too.”

“What were you angry about?”

“It wasn’t a… it was more of a _who_ , for me.” Martin takes a deep breath. “I was _furious_. With myself. For the way I… I was _relieved_. I didn’t want her to see me like _this_ , and we—we never really—she was— _I_ wasn’t a good….”

“It’s—grief is the _most_ complicated process, you know? God, I love my dad more than anything. But it was so hard to separate the anger out. I sort of realised I was angry about _everything_. And any time someone gave me the chance to focus it on them, instead of all these things I could _never_ control, I jumped.”

“To be fair,” Martin says, “Elias deserved it.”

Melanie’s lips curl into a smile. “Yeah, he did.”

“I’ve spent a lot of time being… deliberately _not_ angry. I didn’t—for me, it felt like giving up. Like if I got angry at my situation, I would just lose myself in it.”

“Yeah.” Melanie sighs. She stabs at a particularly resistant piece of spaghetti that’s yet to sink into the water with the wooden spoon. “That’s a lesson I sort of had to learn the hard way.”

“Sometimes, though, I don’t think—I wasn’t angry enough. I’d rather pretend everything was fine than face what was really happening.” Martin begins slicing an onion, the movements of the knife soothing his uncertainty. “When everything was happening with the Unknowing, I just pushed it all down and did what I’d always done with my mum, which was… let things happen. Let her get angry, let her be unfair, because I did—I _knew_ it wasn’t right. I would just try to fix it with—I don’t know, tea, stupid as it sounds, because I felt like everything was out of control. I thought things might go… back, if I refused to change. I guess I was doing that whole—well, _I’ll love you enough for both of us_ sort of thing.”

Melanie huffs a small, sympathetic laugh. “Yeah.”

“Things with your dad—they weren’t like that, though?”

“No, they were good. For a while, he was the only good thing I had left. My anchor. My sense of balance. After everything, anger was kind of the easiest part of my grief for him. It was familiar, and safe, and it just felt _right_. I felt like I could _do_ something with anger. Let it drive me.” Melanie turns her face towards him, then. “I guess there’s a line between acting on anger in a productive way and just—lashing out? Sometimes with a knife.”

“I think it’s gonna take me a while to understand where that line is,” Martin tells her.

“Oh, me too.” Melanie smiles, despite her words. “We could… give each other a hand? From two very different perspectives on anger, maybe it would help to sort of meet in the middle?”

“Yeah, that sounds…” Martin smiles, too. “That sounds good, Melanie. Thank you.”

Melanie returns to the spaghetti. “I’m sorry for stabling you.”

“You don’t have to apologise for that. I’m sorry for getting in the way.”

“Oh, _you_ definitely don’t have to apologise for _that_ either.”

“Sorry.”

“ _Martin_.”

“Alright. No apologies.”

“I…” Melanie clears her throat. “I wanted to ask. If you could… take it back. What Elias did to me. Remove it from my mind.”

Martin stops chopping the onion. He lifts his hand to his watering eyes, tries to swipe away his tears with his wrist. “I could try. If that’s what you wanted.”

“I haven’t decided yet. Just… nice to know I might have the option.”

“I understand.”

“Thank you, Martin.” Melanie pauses. “For the tea and everything else.”

Martin catches another tear with the back of his hand. “You’re welcome.”

They finish making the food in companionable silence. It’s warm and welcoming, and Martin thinks, with a sense of pride, that he might have just made a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just two friends... sitting in a bathtub... trying to express their feelings for each other... and being a huge inconvenience for their housemates who just want to use the toilet goddamnit :)
> 
> i'm not 100% sure about this chapter, mainly because i have projected on Jon AGAIN and also i just desperately want Martin and Melanie to interact in a way they never got the chance to in canon. but there's gonna be a party next chapter!!! so that's fun!!!
> 
> next update Friday, have a wonderful week <3


	24. when the night falls, loneliness calls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scenes from a safehouse, Part 4.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER-SPECIFIC CONTENT WARNINGS: alcohol, inebriation, grief/loss, canonical character death (Sasha), discussions of knowledge and consent around Knowing via Beholding, the Eye (Entity), altered memories, swearing, the Lonely (Entity), isolation, discussions of the afterlife, conspiracy theories, canon-typical worm mention, mentions of childhood bullying, references to deadnaming and transphobia, brief mention of police brutality and corruption, very brief reference to injury and stitches. All of this is mostly in passing, but I wanted to be sure I tagged it nonetheless! <3 
> 
> Chapter title from "I Wanna Dance With Somebody (Who Loves Me)" by Whitney Houston. Yes, really. I love that song and so does everyone in this chapter :)))

In the kitchenette, Jon and Melanie are arguing good-naturedly (for now) about how to make cocktails. Martin supposes he could intervene, ask the Eye how to concoct a Cosmopolitan, but he’s quite enjoying their attempts, which mostly involve throwing mismatched liqueurs and fruit juices into the shaker and hoping for the best. Daisy is sitting on Basira’s shoulders, trying to hang shiny chain-link decorations from the ceiling. And by the small radio, Martin is trying to help Tim debut the playlist he’s spent all week curating.

“It’s going to be great,” Martin reassures him, for the fifth time, since Tim seems unaccountably nervous about it.

“It _will_ be great when I can find somewhere to put the damn AUX cord,” Tim mutters, curled uncomfortably around the radio and inspecting the many ports, “I’ll tell you who we need. We need Sash—”

Tim stops, like he nearly always does whenever he brings up Sasha by mistake in that way of his, a sort of loving, subconscious rejection of her absence from his life. His face is hidden by his hair, which is growing near his shoulders now, and he turns it further from Martin’s view.

“Sasha James,” Martin murmurs, as gently as he can, “Tech extraordinaire.”

Tim’s lips twitch. “She called them ‘life hacks’. You know, like you could just find a friendly YouTube tutorial for anything: _how to hijack a car in ten seconds or less_!”

Martin huffs a small, sad laugh. “I think you can, actually.”

“Maybe. But that’s not how she learned.”

“Then how did she—?”

Tim sits up, his eyes landing on Martin, and the attention is so sudden Martin almost flinches, an echo of the Lonely flashing through him. “What’s real, Martin?”

“Of your memories?”

“All of it. Who… who was the _real_ Sasha?”

“I could—the Eye—”

“No,” Tim snaps. Martin flinches again. “Sorry. I’m sorry, Martin. It’s just… it feels _wrong_. To _Know_ things about her. I mean, where’s the line? How can I know what information she gave me willingly before, and what information that _thing_ takes and gives to us like a—a game.”

Martin looks at his hands, sitting uselessly in his lap. Is he the thing? “I understand.”

“I don’t want to invade her privacy.”

“And that’s the Eye’s mission objective,” Martin mutters ruefully.

“Martin, it’s… you’re still you, okay? I’ve dealt with enough Strangers. You’re not one of them. Not lowercase-stranger, not uppercase-Stranger. You’re Martin K Blackwood and you’re my friend. Fuck the Eye, sure, but I love you and I’m not letting it take that away, too.”

“Uh… thank you, Tim. Thanks. That means a lot, but I—you did listen to the tape, right? I don’t _actually_ have a middle name.”

Tim almost smiles. “Yeah. You had me fooled with that one. Was going mad looking for names that begin with K that aren’t Kevin. And then I kept getting adverts for baby products because I was on so many parenting websites!”

Martin laughs. “Oh, god, Tim. I’m sorry.”

“Nah. I mean, it might be useful, one day! I mean, I’ve always wanted kids, so…”

“That’s a nice thought.”

“It is, isn’t it?”

“I love you, too, Tim,” Martin whispers, almost afraid of the words. He feels fog building in his throat around them, trying to pull them back down. He swallows against the aching, gaping cold of the Lonely inside of him.

Tim smiles, almost blushing. “Thanks, Martin.”

“Please remember that when I tell you,” Martin continues apologetically, “This radio doesn’t have an AUX cord port.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

“How did you—?”

Martin taps his temple, even though that’s not an entirely accurate representation. He doesn’t want to poke himself in the eye, though. And it’s not _his_ eye that supplied the knowledge, but the all-seeing manifestation of fear that seems intent on offering decidedly unhelpful information completely unprompted.

“Right.” Tim sighs, blowing his hair out of his face. “Great.”

Martin pats him awkwardly on the shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

Tim gives him a small, consoling smile and Martin squeezes his shoulder and it’s a nice moment until—

“I spent five years working in a pub and dealing with arseholes like you,” Melanie snaps from the kitchen, “If you don’t stop mansplaining what a daiquiri is to me, I will put your _fingers_ in the blender.”

Jon looks somewhat startled at the threat. “I was merely suggesting that, in the absence of fresh limes, we—”

“Oh, my _god_ ,” Melanie growls.

“Oh, hey, you know what I just remembered,” Georgie says, swooping into the kitchen and dumping the Admiral in Jon’s arms. Smart move. Melanie will have to go through the cat to get to Jon. “ _I_ also have experience working in a pub. Don’t I, Jon?”

“I’m not sure the time you climbed over the bar and threatened to—oh. _Oh_.” Jon finally gets the hint. “Yes, of course. How could I forget? I’ll just… take the Admiral over here.”

Jon carries the Admiral to the sofa and sits down. Martin smiles at him from where his and Tim’s moment has gone from sweet to long-winded while they’ve been watching the cocktail exchange. Jon’s expression softens when he meets Martin’s eyes.

Tim pats Martin on the shoulder, this time, which conveniently ends the initial moment and replaces it with something unfairly teasing. “I can’t believe the _one thing_ that hasn’t changed is your crush on Jon. That’s some hardy yearning.”

“ _Tim_ ,” Martin squeaks.

“What? I’m pretty sure Jon knows about the crush and, you know, reciprocates.”

“You think so?”

“I mean, if you need to hear me say it: yes. _A thousand times yes_!”

“Okay, don’t make it _weird_.”

“I wasn’t making it weird.”

“You did that romcom voice—”

“There’s no _voice_ —”

“Everything alright over there?” Jon asks from the sofa, an eyebrow raised delicately in inquiry, although his lips form a dry but fond smile.

“We’re fine,” Martin says, his voice still a little too high-pitched to pass the conversation off as inconspicuous.

Jon is still looking at him. _Looking_ , in a different way to when he was the Archivist, but it’s almost similar—that intensity, that desire to know and understand and store away for later. It’s like he is memorising every aspect of Martin’s returning look of nervous inquisitiveness, every freckle and brushstroke of his complexion. Martin blushes deeply, but he can’t look away.

“I have an idea,” Tim announces, shattering the moment.

Martin blinks, drags his attention back to Tim. He doesn’t want to admit, even to himself, that he’s reluctant to speak to anyone other than Jon after—well, whatever _that_ was. “Yeah?”

“Be right back.” Tim uses his hand on Martin’s shoulder to leverage himself up and then shimmies across the room to the mattress.

Martin takes the opportunity to look at Jon again. In the intervening time, Jon doesn’t appear to have averted his gaze at all, a fond but almost goading smile at the edge of his lips as he stares at Martin. It’s like he’s enjoying the ability to make Martin blush, to stare back in transfixion. And Martin can’t pretend that he isn’t enjoying it, too, every part of him singing in response to Jon’s gaze.

Tim walks between them, physically breaking the moment again. He’s holding what looks like an old CD case, although it has no album cover and Martin doesn’t recognise it. Even the Eye draws a blank, although Martin does his best not to reach for it as Tim settles back down next to the radio and holds on to the CD like a lifeline.

“So, um, Sasha made this for me. A long, long time ago. Pre-Archives. It’s pretty good, though. A lot of the songs on this were on my playlist anyway, so I thought maybe…” Tim clears his throat. Blinks. Swallows. “Maybe we could use this instead, since this old piece of junk does at least accept CDs.”

Martin finally catches a glimpse of pink marker and looping handwriting that he recognises from the polaroid: _The Very Serious Sasha James Mixtape_. He’s violently surprised by the urge to cry. The Lonely cannot shield him from the sudden onslaught of emotion he’s been trying to avoid for the last half a year.

“Martin?” Tim murmurs, although he looks close to tears, too. “You good?”

“Yeah. Yeah.” Martin gives Tim, then Jon, a watery smile. “It’s just—Sasha helped us out, after all.”

“At times like this, I really want to believe in some kind of… after,” Tim murmurs, shaking his head with a trembling laugh, “Maybe she’s looking out for us?”

“She’s not gone,” Martin tells him with conviction, “Not fully. There’s nothing that can take her away from you, Tim, okay? Memory isn’t just—what you felt was real, not just what you saw. She was real to you. _Remember that._ ”

Tim blinks, two tears streaking almost in unison down his cheeks. “I—I will. I do. Oh, god, Martin, come here.”

Martin doesn’t realise until Tim has his arms around him that he’s crying properly, too. He lifts one hand to Tim’s back and tries to withstand the burning closeness, after so many months of isolation.

“We made cocktails!” Georgie announces, cheerful. Over Tim’s shoulder, Martin sees her stop short behind the sofa. “Oh, no. Are they—?”

“They’re alright,” Jon murmurs, looking a little haplessly at the cat curled so tightly in his lap that he can’t move to join the embrace.

“We’re good. Honestly,” Tim insists, pulling away from the hug.

Martin draws away, too, wiping his cheeks. “Yeah.”

Tim waves Sasha’s mixtape with a resilient smile. “And we have an _even better_ playlist than before, so—let’s get this party started?”

Georgie grins and holds up a cocktail in a pre-emptive toast. “Let’s.”

* * *

“Christ, that’s strong,” Daisy splutters, having swallowed half of a concoction that even the most generous person could not call a cocktail. The party has progressed past the need for cocktails. “What’s in it?”

“Vodka,” Melanie replies.

Daisy frowns. “Anything else?”

“Nope. Just vodka.”

“What about the whiskey that was left at the bottom of that glass?” Georgie interjects, ever the voice of—well, Jon thinks ‘reason’ is too generous, but it’s close enough even on this occasion.

“Oh, yeah. That too.”

“Oh.” Daisy frowns. Blinks. Finishes the drink. “Well, I suppose that will do the job.”

They’ve gathered in a half-hearted circle, some of them on the floor, some on the sofa. Jon can’t quite remember how he ended up in the latter category—he thinks the Admiral might have been involved—but, for some reason, Martin is sitting nearly on Jon’s feet, listing into his legs with each drink. It’s an easy, warm closeness, Martin’s cheek against Jon’s knee, and he reaches forward without thinking to touch the crown of Martin’s head. His hair is still short, but growing quickly, and Martin seems to draw enough comfort from the motion that he closes his eyes. Jon can see his long eyelashes lying curled against his freckled cheeks, like wings folded in rest.

“Have you really only been drunk once in 2006?” Martin murmurs, sounding half asleep. A hush falls over their group, and Martin’s eyes shoot open, his head lifting from Jon’s leg. “Shit. Sorry.”

Daisy quirks an eyebrow, seeming more interested than annoyed, which at least seems to relax Martin enough that he leans back against Jon’s legs. “Did the Eye tell you that?”

“Sorry,” Martin says again.

“Wait. Wait, wait, wait. I’ve just had the _best_ idea,” Tim declares with a grin that might, once upon a time, have made Jon’s stomach curl. Certainly, in the early days of the Archives, he would have shut down that look before Tim even followed it with: “We could play _spooky_ truth or dare.”

There’s a collective groan of, “ _Tim_.”

But Tim immediately comes to his own defence: “What? It’s a classic party game. And we are at a party, are we not?”

He waves at the radio, currently playing _Mambo No. 5_ from Sasha’s playlist, as if that proves his point. Maybe it does. Jon has to confess that he hasn’t been to many parties in his life. And the ones he did attend, he has taken great pains to forget. 

“Might be fun,” Georgie says, and Jon rescinds his earlier thought of her being the voice of reason, “I mean, we used to play it in uni?”

There’s a moment of quiet. Jon blinks, realises Georgie is looking at him to confirm this statement. He frowns. “Did we?”

“You must have done,” Tim implores.

“It always ends badly,” Basira says, “ _Always._ ”

Tim shakes his head. “Ever the pessimist, Basira.”

“Ever the _realist_. I’m just saying it how it is.”

“I don’t want to invade anyone’s privacy,” Martin adds quietly.

“Considering some of us may or may not be Avatars of unpredictable fear entities,” Melanie says, “I hate to say it, but the dares might turn dangerous.”

Georgie gasps. “Melanie King, are you being _sensible_?”

Melanie grins at her. “Is it working for you?”

Georgie gives Melanie a quick kiss on the lips. “Hmm. Yes, I think it is.”

“What about two lies, one truth?” Tim says.

“Isn’t it two truths, one lie?”

“Yeah, but I think it’s fun with more lies.”

“Why?”

“I’m an agent of chaos?” Tim offers, which seems to satisfy Georgie’s line of questioning. “Martin can verify.”

“I guess that’s not as bad as truth or dare,” Basira allows.

Daisy shrugs. “I’m in.”

“Alright,” Melanie huffs, and Georgie nods while staring at Melanie’s mouth.

“I can give it a go,” Martin offers, even though he sounds drunk and exhausted. Or maybe more exhausted than drunk, but in a way that makes it seem like the latter.

Tim grins at Jon again, drawing out his name in a way that matches the smile for potential to cause trouble: “ _Jon_.”

“Fine,” Jon sighs, “If Martin says it’s alright, we can play.”

“I’m good, Jon.” Martin smiles up at him, all sweet and lopsided. “Thank you, though.”

Jon places his hand once again against Martin’s hair. “Of course.”

“Right,” Tim all-but-shouts, “Let’s get this show on the road.”

“I’ll go first,” Daisy announces, which is a surprise, but no one questions her, “I’m five foot three, I have never visited Scotland and I used to have a rabbit named Falkor after the luckdragon from _The Neverending Story_.”

“Well, you’re five foot two,” Melanie says, “So the first one’s obviously a lie.”

“Hmm. True.” Daisy narrows her eyes. “Surprisingly accurate, actually.”

“I’m insecure about my height, okay?” Melanie snaps defensively. “So when you turned up in the Archives, I was sort of hoping I’d no longer be the smallest.”

“And?”

“Well, I’m five foot exactly, so…”

“Actually, you’re four foot eleven,” Martin blurts involuntarily. From Jon’s perch above him, he can see his eyes widen, his cheeks flush beneath his freckles.

“ _Martin_!” Melanie cries. “I thought we were friends!”

“Oh, god, Melanie, I’m sorry,” Martin says, “I wish this thing had an off-switch.”

But Jon could see the pleased upturn of Martin’s lips when Melanie said they were friends. His flush fades, and so does Melanie’s anger—both surprisingly quick. Jon doesn’t know when they became actual friends, but he’s pleased for them both in a way that makes something warm flutter inside of him.

“I feel like you’d visit Scotland,” Tim contemplates, “See the sights, sample the haggis.”

“I don’t like haggis,” Daisy admits.

“So you _have_ been to Scotland!”

“Wait, so you really did name your pet rabbit after _The Neverending Story_?”

Daisy smirks in such a way that dissuades any and all teasing. “Yes. And what of it?”

“I mean, it was a good book,” Melanie says.

“And film,” Georgie adds.

“We can all agree it was a Leitner, though, right?” Basira says.

“Oh, my god, it was!” Melanie gasps.

“Holy shit,” Tim says, “Just when I thought my childhood couldn’t be ruined any further.”

“Before we go down that particular rabbit hole,” Basira interrupts, “My turn: I used to sell knitted quilts on Etsy, I don’t have a middle name and I _have_ been to Scotland.”

“You two are suspiciously keen to go first,” Melanie comments.

“Gets it out of the way,” Basira replies.

“Then we can properly enjoy watching you all squirm,” Daisy adds.

“Is… that some kind of interrogation technique?”

“Nope.”

“Not at all.”

“Right, well,” Melanie says, clearing her throat, “Martin?”

“I’m staying out of it,” Martin replies, “And this thing also doesn’t have an on switch either. So I know as much as you do right now.”

Melanie sighs. “Which is not a lot. Secretive, aren’t we, Basira?”

“You know enough.”

“You must have been to Scotland,” Tim decides, “With Daisy. You’re a secret romantic, I think.”

“Scotland isn’t actually that romantic,” Georgie interjects.

“You’re only saying that because you had to spend a year there with Jon and without the Admiral,” Melanie preens.

“I thought our time in Edinburgh was… not unpleasant,” Jon adds, because he won’t actually use the word _romantic_ in front of so many people.

But it does apply. Sort of. When he thinks back to his and Georgie’s admittedly short time in Scotland, he remembers the time he spent alone, discovering dusty bookshops and secluded cafes, weekend walks outside of Edinburgh where he hardly saw another person. He remembers thinking _finally_ as he hurtled his way through his Master’s degree—finally, he was doing something that reignited a restless passion in him, a drive to look forward, to plan, to seek even further than he had before. The feeling that he was on the edge of understanding the event that defined his childhood _and_ what would tie together his adult life, too. 

“That’s not what I meant. It’s more—Scotland gets romanticised a lot, but that functions in some ways to—I don’t know, I’m too drunk to put this coherently, but it’s not just an atmospheric but empty place for English tourists,” Georgie rambles.

“That’s too intellectual for the level of drunk I am. So I am going to agree and then take a poll,” Tim slurs, “Hands in the air if we think Basira’s truth is that she’s been to Scotland. With Daisy.”

“That wasn’t what I said,” Basira argues, but everyone except Martin has raised their hands already.

“You sold one hundred and fifty-six blankets on Etsy before you got sectioned and no longer had time to knit,” Martin recites, then blinks as if he’s shocked himself.

“No way,” Melanie gasps, “Can you make me one? Oh, I’ve always wanted a weighted blanket! Do you know how to make weighted blankets?”

Jon loses track of time as the conversation drifts to whether Basira knows how to make weighted blankets (yes) and whether she’ll make Melanie one (maybe, if she can find a way to get the materials delivered to the safehouse) and then Tim insists on taking his turn, ultimately revealing—with flourish _and_ a demonstration—that he was a competitive ballroom dancer between the ages of five and eleven. Melanie’s lies and truths are surprisingly mundane, since she’s gripped by an unusual shyness when her turn comes about, and Jon ruins Georgie’s go by verifying her revelation that she used to run their university college’s confessions blog by shuddering bodily at the memory.

Before he knows it, it’s his turn. Brilliant. He was hoping something would have derailed this game by now, or at least they’d be too drunk to continue. But everyone is staring at him, even Martin, so he has to come up with _something_.

“I…” Jon clears his throat, then says it all in one go, a rush of words: “I grew up with two cats, my dissertation advisor believed the moon landing was a hoax and I used to quite like worms.”

“You definitely had _a_ cat,” Tim says, tapping his chin in an exaggerated gesture of deep thinking.

Georgie waves her hands as she talks, like she’s giving a keynote speech, her words tripping over her tongue. “That’s the key: _a_ cat. Singular. There was only one.”

“The moon landing thing is sort of believable,” Basira adds, “It’s a pretty common conspiracy theory.”

“You’d think an Oxford professor would go for something a little more imaginative,” Melanie sulks.

“Yeah, but it’s sort of acceptable enough to get you into a position of power, right? Like sure, it’s out there. But it’s not _out there_ , out there.”

“Quick question, Jon,” Tim interrupts, “How many species of worm are there?”

“Over six thousand,” Jon replies without thinking, “If we’re discounting the supernatural variety, that is. I suppose the parameters of classifying worms are broad enough that the kind we encountered in the Archives _could_ theoretically—”

“It’s the worm thing,” Tim says.

“Yep, it’s the worm thing,” the others agree, nodding.

“ _Why_?” Melanie asks, clearly a little disgusted.

“Not sure,” Jon admits, frowning.

“One of your childhood bullies was scared of worms. You’d find one and pick it up with a stick to ward them off,” Martin says quietly, his eyes glazed with a burst of static before he blinks and grimaces, “God, Jon. I’m so sorry.”

“That was actually sort of sad,” Tim says, “You know what, Jon, I respect your love of worms.”

“I obviously don’t like them _now_ ,” Jon mumbles. He looks down at Martin, resting a cautious hand on his shoulder. “And it’s alright. I would have told you all if I remembered, anyway.”

“But now do you remember, and it’s—not particularly nice,” Martin murmurs.

Jon raises one shoulder in a shrug, careful to let his other hand remain still on Martin’s shoulder. “Better than not knowing.”

“ _Really_ , Jon?” Georgie says.

“That’s another rabbit hole I think we should avoid,” Basira warns.

“Yep,” Tim agrees, “Especially since it’s _Martin_ ’s turn.”

“Alright. Let me think. I guess I…” Martin takes a deep breath. “I’m very allergic to pineapple, but I only found out when I was twenty-three and tried it for the first time. Just before I dropped out of sixth form, I was taking A-level Sociology and we had to submit a creative essay about identity and I wrote part of it in Polish so I could bitch about my teacher because she kept deadnaming me, but it turned out she also knew Polish, which was—awkward, to say the least. And before the big meeting with Elias, I set up notifications on Peter’s computer from this app that’s meant to prevent loneliness. I read the reviews and some of the things it sends you are facts to make you feel less isolated like, hmm—did you know everyone in the world could fit inside Los Angeles if they stood shoulder-to-shoulder?”

“Oh, my god,” Tim says, “Oh, my fucking god, please let the last one be true. _Please._ You have to tell us. Right now. The suspense is too much, Martin, _tell us_.”

Martin smiles, a smile that makes Jon’s heart sing, his stomach flutter. It’s teasing and happy and warm and open. He would gladly let this moment last forever, never mind the truth. But then Martin laughs. Properly laughs, with no echo of the Lonely behind it. “I sort of broke the rules?”

It feels as if they all collectively lean forward in anticipation. “What do you mean?”

“I gave you three truths,” Martin reveals, “The Eye is… surprisingly bad at lying.”

Their small party erupts into chaos as they all process this information. Tim seems to be quite literally crying with laughter at the idea of Peter trying to unsubscribe from the anti-loneliness notifications. Melanie wants to know why Martin didn’t attempt something similar with Elias’s cursed computer, quickly falling into a debate with Basira about what they would use for the maximum annoyance factor. Georgie has gone from appreciating Martin’s ‘fuck you’ to his sociology teacher to lecturing Daisy about how the education system is structurally corrupt, too, and it might not be as obvious as policing, but—

“I didn’t know you were allergic to pineapple,” Jon whispers to Martin.

Martin rests his chin on Jon’s knee, grinning up at him. “Not a deal breaker, is it?”

“Oh, yes. My life would be empty without the presence of pineapples.” Jon doesn’t let his sarcasm linger, immediately adding: “Of course not, Martin. I don’t—well, I can’t imagine any deal breakers, at this point.”

“Me too,” Martin says, still smiling, “Likewise. Ditto.”

Jon lifts is hand to Martin’s cheek. He brushes his thumb beneath Martin’s eye, the one not still livid with Jude’s burn. Martin’s delicate eyelashes flutter against Jon’s thumbnail, creating a strange ghost of sensation, like a breeze against a thick coat. If they were alone, Jon thinks he might just lean forward, swap his thumb for his lips. Try to capture as many of Martin’s freckles as possible with a kiss.

“ _I’ll take every truth as a gift_ ,” Jon murmurs, “ _Mundane or maudlin, I’ll take what you have on your toast with the first time you knew this ends the same for everyone_.”

Martin’s eyes well with tears. “Who’s the poet this time?”

“Martin K Blackwood.” Jon remembers Martin nervously reading him this poem while he was getting stiches after Michael stabbed him. He’d been desperate for a distraction, any distraction, and he’d gotten so much more—a line for every stitch, and Jon sad and sorry at its end. “I told you I remember the last lines of every poem I’ve ever read.”

“I really _don’t_ have a middle name, you know,” Martin tells him, as the tears finally dislodge themselves from his eyelashes and make progress down his cheeks, “I’m not hiding it for some grand reveal or anything.”

“I know, but it has a nice ring to it. Martin _K_ Blackwood.”

“Hmm. If you say so.”

“Perhaps I just like saying you name,” Jon admits.

Martin blinks more tears. “Really?”

Jon smiles. “Really.”

Martin smiles back. And Jon thinks this is the best party he’s ever been to. The only one he ever wants to remember. For now. Maybe they’ll be more, and he feels his heart open joyfully to that idea.

* * *

In the kitchen, Daisy and Basira are sitting, cross-legged, on the counter and having a debate Jon has long-since stopped following. He’s more interested in the trio by the radio, dancing drunkenly to Chaka Khan. Martin, Tim and Melanie have been taking it in turns to dance on the creaky sofa, although they’ve mostly been spinning in and out of each other’s arms. Now, though, Melanie is holding the Admiral like a baby and swaying slowly, not at all in time with the song. Tim has his eyes closed, his (hopefully empty) cup raised in the air, and is moving smoothly to the beat while Martin joins in, cooing occasionally at the cat. It’s quite the scene.

But, if Jon is honest, he has eyes only for Martin.

Jon and Georgie are taking a break at the camping table. They’re both nursing a large glass of water each. They’ve been mostly sitting in silence, watching the others dance, but Jon feels a question building with himself.

“This is it, isn’t it?” Jon asks, at last. “My love—how did you put it?—it’s bigger than any moment of doubt or hurt or spite. I think I _know_ that now.”

Georgie looks like she might cry. “Oh, Jon.”

“I’m not scared.” Jon laughs, a small, short laugh. “For once, I don’t think I would be even if I could.”

“I’m in love, too,” Georgie says, her gaze locked on Melanie, “I’m so in love. And I’m not letting it go.”

“I…” Jon swallows. “I didn’t think we’d get here.”

“We’ve come a long way.”

“We have.”

“God, are we always this soppy when we’re drunk? I swear we used to be more exciting.”

The song changes. Jon becomes aware of this not because he is particularly invested, but because the dancing triad let out a collective screech of excitement at what comes on next. Even Jon recognises it, although he’s not entirely sure where from: _I Wanna Dance with Somebody (Who Loves Me)_ by Whitney Houston.

“Sasha was truly a woman of impeccable taste,” Melanie declares.

“She most certainly was,” Tim agrees, having somehow acquired custody of the Admiral now, holding the cat in an endearing imitation of his earlier ballroom dancing and moving them both to the new song.

“Come and dance with us,” Martin says to Jon and Georgie, waving them over.

“Yes! Yes, yes, yes!” Melanie whines. “Dance with me, Georgie!”

“You can’t _not_ dance to this song,” Tim adds, “It’s disrespectful.”

Georgie gets up, but pauses when she notices Jon remains in his chair. She gives him a pointed look.

He sighs, as loudly as possible, but he stands, too. “Fine.”

Melanie reels Georgie in, but they go quickly from dancing to kissing. Tim seems content to continue swaying as if the Admiral is the Ginger Rodgers to his Fred Astaire. But when Jon approaches, Martin stops dancing completely, a breathless, almost hungry look crossing his face. After a moment, he holds his hand out to Jon.

Jon takes Martin’s hand. Very slowly, Martin draws Jon towards him. It feels like the longest moment of Jon’s life, drawn out languid and warm and bright, like stubborn honey from an old jar. And then he’s closer to Martin, so very close, and they’re moving far slower than the song warrants.

Jon moves his hand to Martin’s face again. Lets his thumb brush over every freckle, like paint against canvas. He feels Martin’s body shudder against his, a warm sort of shiver. Some long-forgotten electrical pulse in Jon replies in turn. He’d forgotten love could be so physical—not sexual, he’s never felt it like that, but there seems to be potential in all of his cells for this beautiful, burning feeling. This buoyant arrival of certain love. True love.

“Can I kiss you?” Jon whispers.

“Yes,” Martin replies, “Please.”

Their first kiss is like the sun; so bright and overwhelming he almost can’t look at it directly. But Jon knows he will keep trying. Something will draw him back every time, over and over—like he is a sunflower, or a dozing cat, or even the moon. He smiles against Martin’s lips, feels Martin smile back, and settles into the feeling of alignment, everything falling into place.

_Please_ , Jon thinks, _please don’t be too good to be true_.

* * *

Martin doesn’t know why he’s crying. He doesn’t want to be crying, not again, not now. The Eye tells him exactly what time it is: 6:43 a.m. Everyone else is asleep, having just about made it to their respective mattresses, even Tim who is, for some reason, squeezed between Georgie and Melanie with the Admiral lying on his chest. There are empty bottles everywhere, and decorations that have fallen or been destroyed by their dancing. The debris of the party.

_It was a good party_ , Martin thinks. Keeps telling himself. But he’s been staring at the back of Jon’s head and crying for a reason he can’t discern since silence settled over the safehouse.

No, that’s not quite true. He knows why he’s crying. He’s crying because he’s happy. He’s so overwhelmingly happy. He’s _in love_.

And it hurts.

He is so unused to happiness surviving, so unused to happiness itself. He has too many scars; his life is made up entirely of too many loose threads. He can’t make promises to himself, let alone to someone else. Let alone to _Jon._

But he remembers dancing with Jon. The way they spun in and out of each other’s arms, the way they laughed, how the music changed and slowed and Jon held Martin so gently, pressing a kiss to his temple as they swayed. He remembers their first kiss like he remembers pain—he cannot recall the details, but he knows it was powerful, knows it will stay with him.

He has so much. He has Jon, and Tim, and Georgie, and Melanie, and Basira, and Daisy, and the Admiral. He has too much. It can’t last, he knows this. He’s crying because _it cannot last_.

It occurs to him that he has a decision to make. He could choose humanity—all of its risks and pains and loves and joys, a life not promised but nonetheless treasured. Or he could _become_ —put all of this aside as borrowed time and dedicate himself again to the balancing of the Powers, which he can _Feel_ outside. He could choose himself or he could choose the world. It doesn’t seem fair.

He doesn’t know yet what he will decide when the time comes. Only that the time _is_ coming.

That night, Martin dreams of the Lonely. He dreams of the Lonely’s prisoner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Martin's poetry, a Jonmartin kiss AND the growing sense that something bad is brewing all in one chapter....... *hides*
> 
> So I'm taking a very short break from posting a chapter every Friday just while I deal with some busy life stuff related to my Master's, which I've been struggling with a little due to mental health (and also the US election, can anyway concentrate right now?). I promise I'm fine and I WILL finish this fic. I might also post some other TMA stuff on here that I have been managing to work on, but we'll see how that goes. I just wanted to be upfront and explain what's happening with the update schedule for everyone who is reading - thank you so much for sticking around, and leaving comments and kudos! The next update will be on 27TH NOVEMBER!!! I'll update here if there are any changes to that schedule. But I should see you all then and please stay safe in the meantime <3


	25. the scar's souvenir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Considerations on the safety of home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER-SPECIFIC CONTENT WARNINGS: invasions of privacy, weapons, arachnophobia, spiders, body horror, the Web (Entity), manipulation, the Hunt (Entity), addiction, swearing, the Lonely (Entity), blood, injury, pain, torture, begging/bargaining, grief/loss, canonical character death mention (Sasha), discussions of death, mortality and the afterlife, existentialism, isolation. 
> 
> Chapter title from "Impossible Year" by Panic! At The Disco.

Jon is dreaming of something liquid and untouchable, which falls away from his memory when a burst of static jolts him awake. He squints up at the ceiling, his limbs heavy and aching, as a familiar but jarring song starts spilling from the speakers as if announced by the static: “ _Coming out of my cage and I’ve been doing just fine_ —”

“Tim,” Jon moans, covering his eyes with his arm, “Turn that _off_.”

The music cuts out, but the voice that follows it is not Tim’s. _Consistent and unpredictable_ , Jon thinks in the split second of recognition before the words themselves register: “Apologies for the abrupt wakeup call. I didn’t realise I’d missed such an _exhilarating_ party.”

Jon’s sitting up in an instant, reaching for Martin. He’s not sure whether he wants to cling to Martin’s hand or to push him away, far from harm’s reach. Martin makes the choice for him, lacing his fingers through Jon’s as they both stare across the warehouse at where Annabelle Cane stands by the radio.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jon can see that Daisy and Basira have both reached for their weapons, knives and guns flashing beneath pillows, ready to be drawn. Tim, Georgie and Melanie have formed a barrier in front of the Admiral as if he faces the gravest threat from Annabelle. The door isn’t even ajar, and the room is in the same state of disarray as they left it, untouched yet violated. Jon feels a fierce sense of protectiveness wash over him, for this place, for the people inside of it.

What good will their resistance do? It’s obvious they’ve been ambushed. They’re in their _beds_ , for goodness sakes, half-asleep still and definitely hungover. Jon tightens his hand around Martin’s, even as Annabelle simply stands by the radio and observes. She seems to have too many eyes, although Jon can only see the two behind her large, circular glasses.

Eventually, Annabelle gives musical yet chittering laugh. “That song brings back memories of my university days. How curious a thing, nostalgia. I almost feel _bad_ about my timing. But you didn’t invite me to the party, so… I suppose I’m entitled to a little pettiness.”

“What do you want, Annabelle?” Martin demands.

“Not going to offer me tea, Martin? This is such a _lovely_ home. So different a setting from our last meeting. I had hoped for a warmer welcome, too,” Annabelle says.

“ _Tell me_ ,” Martin growls, his voice ringing with static. Jon feels his hand jolt in Martin’s, as if a shock has passed between them.

Annabelle laughs again. “That won’t work on me. At least, not _here_.”

“We’re armed,” Daisy calls from the bed, a quiet but firm warning.

“I expected nothing less,” Annabelle drawls, “You can shoot if you like—or stab! Whatever your weapon of choice, I won’t judge. But perhaps I have a weapon of my own, stored away where you can’t yet see.”

“What, spiders instead of brains?” Basira smirks. “ _Terrifying._ ”

“We all know the old cliché: words are as powerful as any weapon. But it’s true.” Annabelle smiles pleasantly, walking across the room slowly until she reaches the camping table. She draws out one of the rickety chairs, sweeps away the shimmering decoration lying forlornly on it like an unused noose, and sits down opposite them as if she’s simply calling a morning briefing between distant colleagues. “Let me ask a question. It’s simple, I promise. Are you ready?”

“Was that the question?” Tim asks, unimpressed.

“No.” Annabelle’s smile doesn’t falter. “ _This_ is the question: would you like to accompany me to Hilltop Road _or_ would you like to be reunited with Julia Montauk and Trevor Herbert?”

“Trevor and Julia are in America,” Jon says firmly.

Jon feels Martin tense next to him the moment he says the words. He looks at Martin, but Martin is looking only at Annabelle with a grim, resigned expression.

“They _were_ in America. And then they were in Glasgow. And now they’re about ten minutes away from this so-called safehouse,” Annabelle replies, “Oh, and they’re armed, too! How fun for all of us.”

“Is she telling the truth?” Melanie demands. “ _Martin_?”

Jon watches as Martin closes his eyes, take a deep breath. He knows the knowledge is already there, that this isn’t Martin searching for it but rather coming to terms with its gravity, its inevitability. He feels his pulse start to pick up in a way he hasn’t felt in too long. He’d let his guard down. Let this place wrap its arms around him with promises of _safe_ and _home_.

He _should have known_.

“Yes,” Martin murmurs, “Trevor and Julia are on their way here. They intend to kill us. All of us. Or die trying.”

“What did we ever do to them?” Georgie squeaks.

“Burn something they saw as their possession. Work at the Magnus Institute. Exist.” Martin sighs wearily. “Take your pick.”

Annabelle watches a small spider dance around her finger. “Come now. It’s not so bad. I _am_ offering you a way out.”

“What, a spooky fieldtrip to your own personal haunted house?” Tim says. “I have no idea why we aren’t all rushing to sign up for that one!”

“We could take the Hunters,” Daisy says, her voice low, a creeping growl beneath the words. Her voice dips and deepens with the words. “ _I_ could take the Hunters.”

“Daisy,” Basira whispers.

“You know I’m right,” Daisy snaps.

“I also know you won’t come back, not this time.”

Annabelle moves her attention from the spider on her finger to the watch around her wrist—a gaudy, vintage sports watch in a shade of orange that matches her flared culottes. “I hate to rush you, but we really haven’t got much time.”

“Did you lead them here?” Basira demands.

Annabelle shrugs. “Does it matter?”

Martin untangles his hand from Jon’s before Jon can protest. He reaches again for Martin, his hand moving without his input to try and latch on, keep Martin close. But Martin stands, puts himself between the mattresses and Annabelle.

“ _I_ will come with you to Hilltop Road,” Martin says, “Leave them out of this.”

Jon’s voice is not alone one in the chorus of protests:

“Martin, _please_ don’t—”

“ _Really_?”

“Not this again, for fuck’s—”

“I know what you are capable of _alone_ , Martin,” Annabelle interrupts, “But my patron pulls on threads; it doesn’t destroy them. You can come with me to Hilltop Road or you can die here. Either way, you’ll be together—if that’s of any comfort.”

“So you’re going to use my friends as hostages to get me to complete the ritual on behalf of the Mother of Puppets,” Martin says, his voice cold and cruel. There’s a deeper sound to it, but it’s not static; he isn’t Knowing. Jon shivers when he notices the Lonely sitting on Martin’s shoulder like a particularly loyal bird. “How original. I’m _so_ surprised.”

Annabelle blinks innocently, but she’s smiling. “Who said anything about a ritual?”

“Nothing is right about that place. If you were going to attempt a ritual anywhere other than the Panopticon, it would be Hilltop Road,” Martin hisses.

“Sometimes it requires compromise to make a home,” Annabelle replies, “I think you could quite like it there. You and your friends. Consider it a retirement plan.”

“I told you: just me. No one else.”

“ _Martin_ —”

“It’s alright, Jon.” Martin smiles softly over his shoulder at Jon, and Jon’s heart shatters at the evident farewell contained in that look. “It’s okay.”

Annabelle sighs. “I really didn’t want to have to do this, but I suppose a demonstration is the only way I’m going to convince you.”

Annabelle curls her hand, finger by finger, in an almost beckoning motion. There are threads between Annabelle’s fingers, which move and multiply in their own ogdoad patterns to match the dancing arachnids. It’s smooth, soft, slow, like a caress of the air. Annabelle is a gentle puppeteer.

Gentle, at least, until Martin’s spine snaps upwards, pulling him to his full height as if there are a bundle of strings connected to his head, his shoulders, his neck—and perhaps there is. Jon can only just see their outlines, like a shimmering mirage, trying to make itself real to him between each blink. The ends of the silver strings disappear into Martin’s skin like fishhooks, although there is no blood to show for the wounds besides Martin’s choked noise of pain as Annabelle winds her wrist again, a twisting whorl of motion that reminds Jon of someone playing a harp.

Jon is standing before he can even think, trying to move towards Martin, when he hears a breathless and wounded howl from Daisy.

He turns to see Daisy has dropped her weapons, falling half in Basira’s lap as she curls around her wrist. The same wrist as Martin’s oddly-healed spider bite. Basira grips at Daisy’s shoulder, but she continues to writhe as agony contorts her veins. He can _see_ it claiming more and more of Daisy’s body, the strings becoming brighter as the poison builds like a climber digging footholds into a mountain face. 

“Melanie!” Georgie cries.

Jon doesn’t need to look to know, but he does anyway, forces himself to bear witness. George is clutching Melanie tightly in her arms. Melanie’s hands are clinging to Georgie, digging into her skin, almost tearing the material of her t-shirt, as she whimpers with the same pain that has captivated both Martin and Daisy, too. She is cannot escape the role of marionette either. 

“Think, Martin. Who gave you your marks?” Annabelle says. “You earned some from your enemies. And you earned others from your allies. I hope you count me in the latter category. My purpose is the same as yours: to tie all of the Powers together through the vessel that is the Archives. Consider the scar my spider left as a length of string, connecting you to every Avatar who ever came close enough to leave a mark. Or better yet: a single artery, binding you all together, through which I can feed anything. Fear, pain, _poison_. I’m immune, of course, but—”

“Stop,” Martin sobs, “I understand. _Stop_. Please, leave them—leave them alone.”

“Will you come with me now?” Annabelle asks, not releasing her invisible hold.

“I’ll come with you,” Georgie says, her voice bold despite the way it shakes.

“Me too,” Basira agrees, quiet and angry.

“ _Please_ ,” Martin groans, looking like he would collapse without the tug of Annabelle’s strings, hooked into his body.

Annabelle lets the moment linger, a cruel, interested smile lingering on her lips before she, at last, releases her grip. Martin collapses to the ground, and Jon reaches for him but catches him still in motion. They both fall in a tangle onto the thin, stained carpet. Jon clings to Martin, his arms tight around Martin’s body as he shakes with lingering pain and overwhelming relief.

There’s a wetness against Jon’s shoulder that he identifies as tears. There’s liquid between his fingers, sticking to his palms, that Jon is horrified to realise is blood, only drawn when Annabelle pulled the hooks from Martin’s skin. Martin is covered in too many tiny wounds to count.

Jon tightens his hold in his rage.

Annabelle stands and tucks the chair beneath the camping table as if they’ll be returning later. Jon knows, in his heart of hearts, that they won’t be back.

“To Hilltop Road, then,” Annabelle says, “I really _do_ hope you’ll enjoy your trip.”

* * *

No one notices them, as Annabelle leads them out of the warehouse, as she slides open the door to a plain, unmarked white van, as she wriggles her fingers in threat until all of them squeeze inside. It’s not that there is no one outside, rushing around on their lunchbreaks, but more that they simply look through them—a subtle twisting of the scene so that it seems mundane, not worth watching.

The driver has a blank expression, despite the scuttling writhing beneath his skin, and he steers the van methodically without waiting for directions from Annabelle in the passenger seat. Martin can feel the power rippling from her, but it’s so multi-faceted that he can’t keep all of it in his mind, in one place. A thousand threads with too many possibilities.

Martin’s body aches. There are a hundred tiny pinpricks, leaving blossoms of blood on the shirt he fell asleep in—the same one he wore to the party, he realises distantly—and too many to feel individually, instead conspiring to create a throb that radiates through him each time his heart beats. He wonders if this is what Jon felt like, after Jane Prentiss’s attack on the Institute.

He tries not to be relieved that Jon is sitting next to him, in the van, holding tightly on to his hand. Jon’s presence means Martin has failed. None of them are safe now. The safehouse, the place where they found love and comfort and peace, has been stolen away from them—because of him.

By some unspoken rule, none of them speak, although they exchange nervous glances for the duration of the drive. Basira and Daisy seem to be communicating with looks, although Martin cannot bring himself to decipher what helpless plan they’re devising. Melanie has her head resting against Georgie’s shoulder, and Georgie plays absently with Melanie’s hair as she worries her bottom lip. They had to leave the Admiral behind. Tim glares at the cobweb covered floor of the van, plucking cat hairs from his pyjama bottoms. It seemed funny, at the time, that he’d had the foresight to put on pyjamas when he was so drunk. Now it seems ridiculous, more evidence of their hubris, that he’s going towards what might be their downfall in his nightwear.

The journey passes too quickly.

105 Hilltop Road is and is not everything Martin expected. From the outside, it looks like a plain, almost painfully boring newbuild replacing the remains of the original: symmetrical reddish-brown brick, a black door with a thin stripe of a window, a crunching gravel driveway. It fits with the other houses, even though there is something distinctly _off_ about it, like every statement-giver had warned. A darkness behind each window, a sense of being watched like the faintest stirring of a curtain as the only evidence a neighbour has been looking. It seems distinctly unlived in, empty and echoing even outside, when the van door slams closed behind them after Annabelle has ushered them out.

“Home sweet home,” Annabelle preens with a quirk of her lips.

The driver has disappeared, even though he never got out of the van. When Martin tries to Know the man’s fate, he is met with shimmering, sticky dizziness, like he’s walked through webbing, and he pulls himself back quickly. Annabelle beckons them towards the entrance of the house. Martin watches Tim and Jon exchange a look, but he is too far away to understand what it means. He moves towards the house, and the others follow.

The house is barren inside. There is no furniture, empty slots in the kitchen where appliances should be, and all of the walls are fresh white, the carpets plush grey. It’s spotless—or, at least, it would be spotless if not for the cobwebs lingering in every corner, filling the empty crevices where signs of life should be. The most unsettling part is that the spiders are missing, absent from their webs.

Martin wonders if they are inside Annabelle. He isn’t sure he wants to Know.

“This way,” Annabelle sing-songs, leading them to a door nestled in the kitchen, almost so tucked away that Martin wouldn’t have noticed it without his attention being deliberately drawn there.

But now that he’s looking at it, it calls to him, an odd, stirring song that pulls him as powerfully as any of Annabelle’s strings. This door is not yellow; if pressed, he isn’t sure he could even describe it, assign any colour he knows to its face. He knows only that he wants to follow, to disappear into its depths.

“Why don’t you lead the way, Martin?” Annabelle suggests gently.

Martin feels Jon’s fingers brush against his arm, but he cannot stop himself from moving away, from moving towards the hypnotising door. He remembers Sasha’s final tape, the description of the table: _just a basic optical illusion_. He tries to hold on to that unfamiliar voice, to let those words detach him from the yearning urge to descend the basement stairs, but he is caught in a trap too powerful for such a tenuous memory, already so worn by his attempts to understand the real Sasha.

He steps into the darkness of the basement, not caring whether the others follow him. He isn’t leading. He is following, too.

The basement is not a basement. It’s bright, illuminated by the refractory silver light emitted from within the spiderwebs coating the walls. There are long corridors, built from reinforced concrete, stretching so far beneath the house that Martin cannot see with his eyes or _the_ Eye. His mind skirts around the edges of the architecture, enough to know that there are doors to rooms that seem strangely _deep_ , full of _something_ , but the tug on his attention is so strong he can barely spare a moment for what blooms around them. He has somewhere to be.

He moves through the corridors, feeling Annabelle just behind him and the others behind her. The fibres of the spiderwebs flicker with a glow that is almost warm, welcoming. Their light is guiding. It conveys them to an octagonal room with heavy and whole walls, a gravity to it that tells Martin they are in the centre—or perhaps that’s the table, sitting in the middle of the room.

The table Breekon and Hope delivered all those years ago, when they were still two halves of a whole. The table that held the thing that took Sasha, the last thing, perhaps, that their Sasha ever saw. The table that the Web stole from Artefact Storage the night Jon snuck into the Archives, a play of their hand almost as obvious as the souvenir of a scar Annabelle gifted to Martin.

It seems to have grown, expanded into a table large enough for fifteen chairs, all of them—the free, human part of Martin’s mind goes to _empty_ , but the Eye warns him that’s not quite true. They might _look_ empty, but there is an energy in each of them, stark, heavy pockets of being that sing of _the awful dread that crawls and chokes and blinds and falls and twists and leaves and hides and weaves and burns and hunts and rips and leads and dies_ —

“Martin,” Jon murmurs, reaching for him.

Martin feels Jon’s hand against his as if they are both wearing gloves. There is a barrier between them, a ghoulish distance. He cannot hold Jon’s hand back, no matter how much Jon clings to him.

“Martin, listen to me,” Jon says, “That table, it—”

“It calls to you, doesn’t it, Martin?” Annabelle interrupts. “In many ways, the Web always has. You always admired the spider: persistent, tenacious, weaving its web no matter how many times it had been destroyed. Always underestimated or denigrated—people ask what spiders do for us, lament their uselessness and lingering, but you know better than most how important a spider is to the survival of all humanity.”

“What do you care about the survival of humanity?” Basira snaps.

“More than you could possibly know,” Annabelle replies sharply. Then her mouth moves into a twisted smile. “Although it may not be survival as you know and remember it.”

Jon’s presence is distant next to Martin, but his voice is strong: “What do you want from him?”

“An alliance, that’s all.”

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t believe that’s _all_.”

Annabelle rests her hand on the table. With her finger, she traces one of the lines across its surface until it leads her to one of the chairs, upon which she sits like a throne. “We were talking about nostalgia earlier, weren’t we? Well, that seems like a good starting point for my explanation: I often wonder what that foolish psychologist who instigated the experiment that bought me here would think if she knew how close she was to the truth. There is an element of truth to extrasensory perception, in so much as truth _exists._

“You see, there are universes beyond our own, many realities layered atop and around and within each other. You’ve seen some of them, in person or through statements: the Panopticon of Millbank Prison, the Wax Museum in Great Yarmouth, Anya Villette’s stroll through time and space, Adelard Dekker’s _hilarious_ account of the Bright Lake amusement park in Colorado. There are too many to count, both inside and beyond this world. What we _can_ rely on is that fear _bleeds_ between realities when it becomes strong enough to tear through the matter and energy that usually keeps them separate.

“These pockets of fear tend to be random, driven by the dynamics of porosity and a logic not unlike dreams: we follow and experience and _feel_ in a way that often seems beyond our control. Of course, there are monsters in every universe that try to give fear rhyme and reason, ascribe themselves a god to worship, a ritual to fulfil. The Web has spent many years watching these foolish pursuits from afar, as one of the few Powers—along with Terminus and the Twisting Deceit—who can grasp this multiplicity in a way that is not just the mindless grappling of fools like Simon Fairchild or the Lukas’s. 

“Of particular interest to us are the worlds beyond ours where one Power has gained such a stronghold that the others are too weak to achieve anything other than isolated bursts of terror. And yet, despite the singular potency of, say, the Desolation in the universe twice removed from this one, all attempts at a ritual to manifest a state of total fear—an apocalypse of fire and destruction—have failed.

“ _Why_ , asked the Mother of Puppets? To the Mother, all things must be considered as a whole. And this is where our philosophy was born. Fear is relative and adaptive, as demonstrated by the emergence of the Extinction in this world. Fear can change in ways even the Web cannot predict because its host is malleable, reactive, inseparable from the context in which it exists. And for humanity, that context is always and everywhere a finite lifetime in which to create and explore and love and leave a legacy. Even if you believe in an after or a more, there is only so much you can do—can trust, even—in your current manifestation of existence. Thus, all fear leads back to death, the End, the ultimate unknown, even as humanity strives to understand everything around it in a way that has only given them more questions—and more fears, such as the vastness of the oceans and skies, the totality of war, the ethics of the processing line.

“Therefore, the Powers as we know them now have blossomed outwards from the very basic urge to survive. They have grown from, but remain bound to, a fixed starting point that has given the End power in every strand of existence that surrounds us. The End has no need for a ritual because it already exists where everything has the capacity to fear its cessation. It doesn’t have to be a sophisticated fear: the terror is primal and embedded so deeply inside its host that the End doesn’t require a ritual to assert its presence. For all that we consider the End passive, even benevolent, it holds us all in its chokehold.

“And so the Mother got to work, sitting at the loom of reality and beginning to weave our ritual into existence. In this universe exists something unique: the Archives, a record of terror that can bind, with observation, with knowledge, as powerfully as the Web can predict and manipulate. Every statement taken by the Magnus Institute, every mark acquired by its resident Archivist over the years, only strengthened the ties the Mother of Puppets has weaved between the strands of existence.

“Our alliance is too advanced for you to turn down now, Archivist.

“We have torn at reality and poured the fears deliberately into this world—you have noticed, haven’t you, the upturn in people encountering the Powers over the last one hundred or so years? It was not _only_ a product of the way our society has changed organically, although that, of course, helped. And this world is so uniquely placed, as the only universe where the Eye has a stronghold. Here we have the perfect binding agent. You recall, too, how so few of the statements you receive are products of the Eye’s manifestations. The Eye’s power rarely bleeds into this world because there is no gradient, no incentive; it would be so close to realisation here, if not for the way the End continues to antagonise it.

“The moment has come to assert the true potential of the alliance between the Web and the Eye. Together, we can destabilise the original manifestation of all fear, shift that fixed point from which everything grows to create an existence in worship of _our_ Powers. We will redefine our worlds with the Web’s binding and the Eye’s watching, until our combined power bleeds through every strand, every universe. Until every action is predictable, and every living thing walks the trajectory of its life knowing and fearing what is coming next without any power to intervene. There will never again be a loose end. It will be peaceful, I think. Imagine never having to worry about what you will see or do or experience next; it simply already _is_.

“Together, we can create a world where every string can be seen and manipulated. Where even death can be anticipated. The other Powers may take their turns to pull the strings from time to time—we will give them a directorial debut here and there, an audience on the nights where we desire simply to stand back and observe—but we will _rule_ over the web that is reality, bound to the central point: this table, where your throne awaits, Archivist.”

There’s a beat of silence, so absolute Martin is reminded of the Lonely. And then Tim whispers: “Holy shit.”

“That’s what’s is in the rooms down here,” Basira murmurs, a light rumble of static beneath her words, “Tears in reality. Ties between our world and the others.”

“Precisely. It would be remiss of me not to mention the help of our other allies, although they might not have considered themselves that at the time. Then again, how could they have known they were caught in the Mother’s trap until now? You’ll find Jude Perry around here somewhere. Jonah Magnus and Peter Lukas, too. With every strike they attempted to levy against us here at Hilltop Road, they pulled even more of their Power into this world.” Annabelle shrugs from her own throne. “They probably thought they had won at the time, or at least shifted the odds in their favour. But the Web’s foresight is its greatest strength. We have played a long game with all of them. Now they’ll watch as we claim a victory that, ironically, would not be possible without them. Which reminds me: would you like to join them in their spectatorship?”

“Um,” Tim says, taking a reflexive step backwards, “Nope, not particularly.”

“I’m afraid you don’t have much of a choice in the matter.” Annabelle makes the same curling motion with her hand, and Martin feels Jon’s hand jerk in his. The light seems suddenly darker. Martin realises with a crawling sense of dread that it’s because their spiders have returned, too big already and with shadows that pulsate like a second body. “My spiders will show you to your seats, so to speak.”

“Martin,” Jon says desperately, clinging to Martin’s hand even as hooks begin to appear in his skin, as the spiders around them start clicking into motion, “Martin, listen to me. Listen. You are Martin. Martin Blackwood. Not the Archivist, not an ally to the Mother of Puppets. You are _you_ , just you, and that’s _everything_. I promise that’s _enough._ We need— _I_ need you to stay. Please, Martin. _Please_.”

Martin stares down at their entwined hands. Jon is losing his grip finger by finger, until his pinkie is only just clinging to Martin’s, the last moment of contact between them.

“Jon,” Martin murmurs. The name feels like an anchor, even as Jon is torn away by the hooks and the spiders.

“Remember,” Jon says, as he finally loses his grip, his little finger snapping away from Martin’s as he’s dragged away, “Remember who you are, Martin.”

And then they’re gone. They’re all gone. Martin is alone again.

Annabelle grins. “Why don’t you take a seat, Martin?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> may i offer you some web-aligned existential philosophy in these trying times? i've based Annabelle's speech and the general weirdness of Hilltop Road on some scraps from canon but at this point i think i have reached the canon divergence point of no return. which does at least mean [slight spoiler alert] this is going to have a happy(ish) ending!!!!! things are just going to get bad beforehand in a very extra-dimensional kinda way >;)
> 
> ALSO Happiest of Birthdays to @spf500!!!!! I hope I got this out in time for your timezone!!!! You are awesome and I hope you have (or had) the loveliest day, my friend <3
> 
> i really want to get this finished during the six week hiatus which started yesterday so that i don't get put off by the wildly different canon content that is wrapping up the series compared to whatever the hell is going on in this fic. having said that, i think it will be 2 weeks before i can get another chapter out - things are still pretty rough at the moment, but we're getting there! so next update will be FRIDAY 11TH DECEMBER. thank you everyone for your patience <3


	26. the face in the flashback that you thought you deleted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon revisits a chapter from his past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER-SPECIFIC CONTENT WARNINGS: spiders*, arachnophobia, the Web (Entity), the End (Entity), alcohol & hangover (very briefly mentioned), manipulation, gaslighting, eye trauma/enucleation, swearing, nausea, blood, gore, references/allusions to hanging, body horror, discussions of death, suicidal ideation, character death**, burns, implied/referenced child abuse. Also, possible spoilers for MAG195 although there is nothing specific and this chapter is not based on that episode (I mostly wrote it before listening).
> 
> Chapter title from "Secrets" by Tribe Society. 
> 
> *there are a lot of spiders and web imagery here, so please proceed with caution if that's not your thing!  
> **skip to the end notes if you want to know who this is, as it is not canonical

The room is empty except for the book, sitting closed on the floor, dead centre: _A Guest For Mr. Spider_.

“Fuck,” Jon chokes, balling his hand into such a tight fist that his nails dig painfully into his palm and pressing it against his mouth. He paces between the Leitner and the door, a restless anger growing inside of him like a stoked furnace. “ _Fuck_.”

The Leitner is just as he remembers, especially now that it’s right in front of him and not tucked beneath Annabelle’s arm like an errant textbook. The cover is plain and colourless, with the title and the cobwebs pressed into its surface as if by a child with a blunt carving knife. He knows, if he turns it over, there will be no blurb, but that sketch of Mr Spider will be staring back at—

“No. _No_ ,” Jon snaps, half to himself, half to the book, “Not again. I know what you’re capable of.”

He settles in front of the door, tired of mindless pacing, and kneels to examine the lock. He should have asked Sasha to teach him how pick locks, not simultaneously judge and admire her skill from afar in the early days of the Archives.

Back then, his pride would not have allowed him to simply throw himself at the door, putting all of his weight behind his shoulder like he learned in PE—not that he’d ever actually joined _in_ with the rugby. He used to think his intelligence put him above certain things, but he’d learned by now that desperation was a quick teacher, and sometimes tasks required one to do first, consider later.

His slapdash method doesn’t work. Jon’s shoulder aches mockingly, and he stands back, his hand wrapped around it, to observe the door with a withering glare. The only way out—if it could even be called that—is into whatever alternate reality lurks inside the Leitner that defined Jon’s childhood.

He can’t stop thinking about Martin, about the expression on his face when he first saw the table, when Annabelle described the Web’s ritual, when she sent them away. There was something _caught_ about it, not in the way of someone found doing something they shouldn’t, but an almost comforting acceptance of being trapped. A surrender, perhaps. Like the table, at last, promised rest. 

Jon had taken too much for granted again. In the days they’d had together in the safehouse, he and Martin had shared so much, laid themselves bare, shared truths long-buried and supressed—or so Jon thought. He thought, too, that Martin’s connection to the Archives would wane as they gained distance from the destroyed Institute, give them some opportunity for rest and freedom.

He had been foolish. He had let hope get the better of him.

He closes his eyes. Leans his forehead against the door. “Oh, Martin. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He takes a shaking breath. “Of course you can’t hear me, but I—I’m _not_ leaving you. I _won’t_. Not again. Not this time.”

He nearly screams when there’s a polite but urgent knock on the door, rattling the scratching wood against his forehead. He stumbles backwards, tripping over his own feet, stopping just short of touching _A Guest For Mr. Spider_. He pulls his hand away in disgust before fixing his eyes, with apprehension, on the rattling door.

“Helen?” Jon ventures, his voice unsure.

There’s a pause. _Please be Helen_ , Jon thinks, _please_. But the door isn’t yellow.

“Um… not quite,” says a familiar voice from the other side.

“ _Oliver_?”

A nervous chuckle through the wood. “Oh, good, it is you. Jon. You are Jon, right?”

“Yes, of course I’m Jon. What on _earth_ are you doing here?”

“We should probably have this conversation face to face. One moment. Just let me—you’re not standing in front of the door, are you?”

“No.”

“Marvellous.”

And then Oliver kicks down the door with his spiked boots, looking like it requires hardly any effort, and hurries into the room that has, in a short time, proven to be a very effective prison cell. For Jon, at least, who is trying not to let Oliver’s entrance stir that inconvenient jealousy in him again.

“Martin,” Jon says, standing and immediately moving to push past Oliver.

“Wait, Jon.” Oliver grasps his arm. “Wait.”

Jon pulls his arm away, glaring up at Oliver. “You’re in on this, aren’t you?”

“I—it’s complicated.”

“I don’t have time for an explanation. Either claim me on behalf of your patron, if that’s why you’re here, or let me—”

“I’m not here to kill you, Jon,” Oliver says solemnly, “You look… rough day?”

“I’m hungover, I’ve just found out about the existence of multiple universes and Martin is being manipulated into initiating the apocalypse _again_ ,” Jon snaps, “What sort of day do you think I’ve had? Now, if you’ll—”

“The ritual is already in play. As soon as he takes a seat at the table, he’s locked into the Mother’s plans. If you interrupt it now, you’ll kill him,” Oliver says, “I might have a way to help, but—”

“ _Tell me_ ,” Jon growls, missing his lost powers of compulsion.

“I lied. At the coffee shop.”

Jon tightens his hand into a fist again. “Of course.”

“I did find the warehouse. It didn’t take long. I spent the rest of the time walking around the block, trying to think about what to _do_.”

“And you decided, somewhere on this walk, that you were going to betray us?”

“I decided I was going to _stop_ this once and for all.”

“Because the Web will finally put an end to your patron’s dominance?”

“No,” Oliver snaps, “Because this ritual is going to kill Annabelle and Martin, and I don’t want that to happen.”

“ _Explain_.”

“The Mother of Puppets needs sacrifices to provide fear strong enough to shatter the boundaries between worlds. Annabelle and Martin are the most powerful embodiments of the Web and the Eye to exist in this universe, but they are not beyond fearing their patron—I think they fear it the most, more than anyone else, for their intimacy with it,” Oliver explains, “The Mother will take something physical from them—a symbol of their dedication to their patrons—in order to create the energy needed for the ritual.”

“And it will kill them?” Jon murmurs in horror.

“Yes. It will be something they can’t live without. An embodiment of the Eye or the Web that’s been keeping them alive since they became—”

“His eyes,” Jon says, his stomach rolling. He thinks he might vomit as the realisation rushes through him, prickling his skin with fear. “She’s going to take Martin’s eyes.”

“And Annabelle’s spiders,” Oliver adds, “Which, at this point, are the only thing keeping her alive.”

“Why do you care about Annabelle?”

“You know better than most that it’s not impossible to care about an Avatar. I like Annabelle.” Jon doesn’t know what look he gives Oliver to receive the next part of his explanation: “Not like that. I’m gay. And not the biggest fan of spiders either. I just think—she’s been manipulated, too, and she doesn’t deserve _this_. And she’s been the closest thing I’ve had to a friend since I turned into an Avatar, so… I would rather she didn’t die just yet.”

“Okay.” Jon drags his hand across his face. “Christ. Alright. We’ll—I suppose we ought to help Annabelle, too. Now tell me how, exactly, you intend to do that.”

“You’re not going to like it.”

“Get on with it, Oliver.”

Oliver nods to the Leitner. “Jonah Magnus is still in there. Just about.”

“You’ve got to be _fucking_ kidding me.”

“His eyes would serve the same purpose as Martin’s. He has just as much experience with the Entities as any Archivist.”

“So you’re suggesting I go in there, remove Jonah Magnus’s eyes from his half-dead host and then feed them to the Mother of Puppets?”

“Precisely.”

Jon nods. Decides. “I’ll do it.”

“That was quick.”

“How will it stop the ritual?”

“Because I’m going to feed the Mother’s loom to the table instead of Annabelle’s spiders. Or—what did Adelard Dekker call it? A binding. The Web and the Eye, united against the apocalypse,” Oliver replies, “It will unbalance the ritual, causing the Web’s ties to implode. They’ll be no connections between universes, not until more are built by time and fear. It won’t be possible to bring about a full ritual because there won’t be enough connections between all of the Entities to overlap—to come together in one strand of existence, so to speak.”

“You’re going to _feed_ the—?”

“I know what I’m doing, Jon.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.” Oliver hesitates. “Or, at least, Dekker did and I trust him. Don’t you?”

Jon sighs. “Well, yes, I—do I have much of a choice?”

“No.” 

“Brilliant.”

Oliver takes a deep breath. “Meet you at the table?”

“Oliver,” Jon says, catching him just before he rushes out of the door again, “The others, they’re—”

“Don’t worry about that. I’ll find them.”

Jon steadies himself, trying to draw the courage and determination he has seen in Martin—seen in every person in their safehouse—over the last months. “Then I suppose there’s nothing left to say besides good luck.”

Oliver gives Jon a firm pat on the shoulder. “To you, too.”

Oliver gives him a salute before departing. Jon watches him go, stares at the doorframe—the hinges and screws shifted, the door itself hanging against the wall. He doesn’t think about another way, does not even entertain the opportunity for escape. He backs away from the door, just five paces, before stopping. He knows the Leitner is behind him, waiting. If he takes another backwards step, his heel will hit the hard edge of the book.

Jon takes a shuddering breath. It feels weak in his chest, fleeting. His heart drums painfully against his ribs. For a moment, he allows himself this imitation of fear, the closest his patron will allow him, for himself, for Martin. For what happens to the world if this doesn’t work. He inhabits, becomes, absorbs the entirety of this terror-adjacent sensation. And then, with another shaking breath, he lets it go. It settles like a shadow, next to him and unshakeable, but no longer dominating his entire being.

He turns. He kneels in front of the book. He opens the cover.

_The blank room. The table, the flowers_ — _drooping, dying bluebells. Two doors. Mr. Spider in the middle of it all, perched, watching._

It’s starkly familiar, despite all the years that have passed. He thinks he knew, even as a child, that it would stay with him, that his mind was crystallising memories he would never be able to shake as his small, shaking hands turned each page of the book. He tries not to think about the last time, but it’s difficult not to remember the echo of terror, the same feeling of being pinned in place as he used to get reading statements. No escape, nowhere else to look but the page in front of him. He makes himself turn the page again.

_Textless pages. Mr. Spider, starring at the left door. The third page. The fourth. All the same, except the shifting arms, all twisted in different directions._

Jon’s breath catches in his lungs. He knows what’s coming next. He doesn’t allow himself another moment of pause before moving on.

KNOCK KNOCK. 

Jon can hear himself, a small, whimpering keen beneath the tide of his breath. He tries not to think about it. The sound does not belong to him. There are two versions of himself reading this book: the scared child and the man he is now, incapable of fear. They can’t co-exist. He won’t be able to do this if they meet, if they merge.

WHO IS IT, MR. SPIDER? 

Jon pushes on. Mr. Bluebottle arrives with his twisted, diseased offering of cake, and the almost empty page that follows. Almost.

MR. SPIDER DOESN’T LIKE IT.

Another guest, another inadequate offering. The shifting colour of the door, the blood-like darkness around its edges. Mr. Spider, growing full, mouth matching the red-rust door. Shifting, moving, reaching arms of eight. The son, sacrificed, an image that has haunted Jon all of his life, through sleepless nights, through the dreams that arrive when he manages to drift.

MR. SPIDER WANTS MORE.

It’s blood and it’s everywhere. It can’t be anything other than blood, staining the door, the spider, the string. Jon cannot move, cannot even breathe as Mr. Spider stares out of the book. _All eyes_ , Jon thinks—a description that might once have been for him, and he’s sorry, he’s so sorry for all of the people he has watched and observed and trapped with the weight of his power.

MR. SPIDER WANTS ANOTHER GUEST FOR DINNER.

He isn’t breathing as his hand closes into a fist. His fingers curl in one-by-one, the only resistance he can manage to the compulsion of the book as it pulls at him, like a string around his heart, clenching, tugging. The stained wood of the book, so old he cannot tell if it is ink or if it is real blood, dried over the years and the victims long-gone. He begins to lift his fist.

IT IS POLITE TO KNOCK. 

And so he is polite. He knocks.

KNOCK KNOCK. 

The door opens. At first, there is only darkness inside, so deep it seems to stretch beyond the book, curling and inviting like a beckoning hand. Like eight beckoning hands. He is suspended above the nothingness of the open door, no air left in his body, waiting for the fall. The door is so small and yet it feels as if there is a universe behind it, waiting to swallow him whole. 

The legs emerge slowly, as if enjoying the moment of Jon’s return. _At last_ , he sees in the tremble of those black legs, the thin hairs that thrum with excitement as they brush against the exposed skin of Jon’s neck. He has never been so still in his life. The rigidity hurts, but he doesn’t dare to even breathe as the legs move almost gently, biding their time.

And then, twenty years late, he is consumed. He thinks he manages a cut-off cry before the door slams closed behind him.

* * *

Inside, the darkness is a thick and sticky thing, clinging to him on all sides. It’s so sinisterly close to sleep that Jon spends some time wondering whether he lost consciousness when he was pulled into the Leitner, but his thoughts are too loud and intentional.

He closes his eyes. Some part of him, small and scared and scarred, expects to be devoured at any moment. A reward for Mr. Spider, for all those years of waiting. But a violent shudder dashes through him when he remembers the way the spider’s arms had reached out for him, the almost fond caress. Like they had been waiting for him, but for a purpose other than death.

Behind his closed eyes, Jon can see the same eerie grey glow that had illuminated the inside of Hill Top Road. He lets himself be guided by it, moving his legs without opening his eyes. The Eye demands sight, but this place does not belong to such an obvious and demanding patron. Jon lets himself move by instinct through this domain, in deference to his illustrious host.

The webs around him shift as he moves through them, not parting exactly, but giving him passage. One wrong move, and he feels the webs tighten and recoil, pushing him back onto the path of the string he can only see when he is not looking, not really. He tries not to breathe too deeply. The webs stick to his skin, his mouth, a cloying and choking sensation not dissimilar to reeds beneath water. He feels them ripple around him, as if plucked. A shudder passes through him, and he can feel the entire domain ripple with it.

He remembers Martin. Over and over, he thinks of Martin, of why he is here. _I like spiders. Big ones, at least. Y’know, the ones you can see some fur on; I actually think they’re sort of cute…_ His lips twitch, an almost-smile, and he pushes himself forward, wading deeper into the thick web.

The string behind his closed eyes begins to vibrate as he draws nearer. He can feel himself being pulled now. The web around him takes on new life, writhing so energetically that he thinks he can hear it chiming, like a harp being plucked. Something slithers around his wrist and _tugs_. He doesn’t allow his eyes to open, just relaxes into the pulling motion, allowing himself to move with the conveyance of the animate web.

And then, all of a sudden, the string snaps.

He stands exactly where he is, still as he can manage. He doesn’t open his eyes, not yet. He doesn’t want to. He can still feel the web around his wrist. It is held aloft, like an offering, like he is meant to be reaching for something.

“I quite think the purpose of this ordeal is for you to _watch_ , Jon,” says a familiar voice, sounding as though it is slightly above him.

Jon opens his eyes. There is no real sense of up or down, above or below, but Elias—Jonah—seems to be elevated relative to where Jon himself is tangled. The web has taken much more of Jonah. Both of his legs are completely encased in webbing, which climbs up his abdomen in the pattern of ribs, cross-crossed and cutting, far too many of them to match the anatomy beneath. One half of Jonah’s upper body looks collapsed, plastered over with web but empty beneath, a swallowing dip in his flesh and bones. His arms are held out on either side of him, strings of web capturing him by the wrists and secures him in place. There is another web around his neck, like a noose, and whole cobwebs in his hair.

Jon thinks, if he were anywhere else, if he were not frozen in place, he might have been sick.

“Jonah,” Jon murmurs, a half-hearted greeting.

“Hello, Jon,” Jonah replies.

“I thought you were dead.”

“The Web has—ah.” Jonah flinches and chokes, as the web around his neck tightens, as if in fury that he has dared utter its name. “Has seen it fit to remind me that there are fates worse than death.”

Jon thinks of Martin, then, and wants to cry. “Had you forgotten?”

“I never thought it true.” Jonah smiles, almost laughs. “For all of this suffering and _indignity_ , death would still not be a mercy. There’s work to be done yet.”

“Do you think that’s why I’m here?” Jon doesn’t care how obvious the question is, how coloured by disbelief his voice is. “To _rescue_ you?”

“I have an offering.”

“I’m not interested,” Jon snaps.

“Oh, but Jon, we’re alone now,” Jonah says, “You don’t have to pretend.”

Jon remembers his moment of hesitance in the Panopticon. If he looks closely enough, beneath the webbing, he thinks he can see Jonah’s eye, still blackened from Tim’s fist. The same eye as Martin’s wound from Jude Perry. If Jon hadn’t hesitated then, if he had just pushed on, like Tim and Basira, would he have saved Martin from suffering the Desolation’s vivid, unique, twisted pain? A pain he knows well enough himself. Martin’s scar will be forever. Jon’s, too.

Just like the scars Jonah has given all of them. Each scar suffered by everyone he loves, orchestrated or utilised in some way by the man encased above.

Perhaps it’s not fair to blame Jonah for all of it. But he is the person standing in front of Jon, in this moment. And this time, he is at Jon’s mercy.

“I want nothing from you,” Jon snarls, “I am _done_ with your lies.”

“Do you think the End will let you be? It may be passive, but it is not entirely inert, Jon, you must know that.” Jonah’s drawl somehow sounds casual, conversational, despite the way the web stretches and claws at him. “It sent you in here, did it not? To keep the Web happy by letting it destroy you, at last, and Oliver feeds his patron with your death. A victory for all involved. Except you, of course.”

Jon holds his tongue.

“Did you think Oliver was on your side? Do you think Oliver is capable of caring for another soul?”

But Jon’s heart speaks when he cannot, an escalating rhythm of realisation.

“I am quite sure he told you himself that he has no one left,” Jonah continues, “No friends. No desire to make friends.”

“You can still See, then,” Jon spits, anger climbing up his throat like bile.

“You might have been claimed by the End, but you were mine first. I gave you the means to seek out your purpose, your _potential_ ,” Jonah hissed, “ _I opened your Eyes_.”

Jon feels his first curl, but not because of the Leitner. “Oh, fuck off.”

Jonah just smiles. “You were manipulated, Jon.”

“ _Stop_ —”

“You are going to die here,” Jonah all but purrs, “If you do not accept my bargain.”

“ _No_!” Jon shouts, all of his rage and pain and fear bursting out of him in that simple, powerful, all-consuming word. No. _No_. The word he should have said all along. The word he was never given the chance to say, the word that was taken away from him until now. “You have _no_ control over me here. I won’t fall for your lies again.”

“What of Martin? Will you—?”

“ _Don’t_ say his name.”

Jonah’s grin grows. “He’s really come into his own, hasn’t he? It seems as if he will exceed all expectations. A better Archivist than _you_ , at any—”

“You _hurt_ Martin,” Jon says, his voice lower, no longer a shout, but growing in power. He takes a step closer to Jonah’s trap. “You manipulated him.”

“Of course. It is rather a rite of passage, at this point.”

“You hurt me,” Jon whispers, “You manipulated _me_.”

“Yes,” Jonah agrees readily, a dangerous lilt to his voice, “But where would you be without me?”

“I don’t know. I’ll _never know_.”

“I can show you, if—”

“No,” Jon growls, “ _No_. You will stay away from my mind.”

“Do you really think you could be happy? You are right: I manipulated you for my own purpose. But you must know, Jon, that you were an easy target—all but made for me. Always looking where you are not welcome, asking questions no one wants to answer. Too curious for your own good, too stubborn to question where the path was taking you. Even Martin realised what was coming, what his fate would be. But you, _you_ walked willingly into—”

“It wasn’t my fault,” Jon says, quietly, but it feels true. For the first time, he thinks he might believe it.

“I’m the only chance you have left to make it out of this alive. The End and the Web have sent you hear to _die_ , just like me. And it will be slow. It will be painful,” Jonah tells him, “ _Unless_ you set me free.”

Jon almost laughs. The urge bubbles inside of him, frantic and desperate. “That is _not_ happening.”

“I will tell you how to destroy the table. Once and for all.”

“You’re _lying_.”

“There is always more than one door,” Jonah snaps, “But if the Web wins—”

Jon is hit by a memory. A double memory, twenty years apart, layering and blending like a distorted polaroid. There were two doors. When he read _A Guest For Mr. Spider_ all those years ago, when he read it to get here, there had been a left door and a right, behind Mr. Spider. Offerings in pairs—Mr. Bluebottle and the cake, Mrs. Fruit and the flowers, Mr. Horse and his son. The son, the sacrifice. But the father was afraid, too, and not just of losing his son.

_Because there were two doors_.

“The Web enjoys symmetry, does it not?” Jon asks aloud.

“You don’t know what the Web wants,” Jonah snarls.

“The Web wants a partnership,” Jon continues, “It’s been looking for years.”

Jonah laughs, but it sounds insincere. “Don’t be foolish, Jon.”

“The Web hides, and it waits, and it watches.” Jon takes another step closer. Jonah flinches. “The Web is looking for a conduit, just like you were. A way to change the world without being the centre of attention. Of course, I have no doubt that _you_ would have found a way to make yourself ‘the king of the ruined world’, but the Web—well, the Web actually knows the meaning of the word _subtlety_.”

“ _Don’t_ try to be funny.”

“Oh, but I don’t even have to try, not anymore.” Jon smiles. “Because it _is_ funny. Don’t you _see_ , Jonah? It’s _hilarious_.”

“ _Jon_ —”

“You could have had the perfect ally. The Web left you so many signs, but you never once heeded their warnings. Imagine the things you could have done, if you hadn’t pissed off the Web from the very beginning,” Jon presses on, “If you hadn’t stolen what it had claimed as its own.”

Jonah’s grin turns into a disgusted snarl. “And by that, I assume you mean yourself?”

“And then.” Jon pauses, feeling his furious smile grow. “And _then_ you all but gave me to the End. You sent me to the Unknowing, expecting that your little _interventions_ would make me immune to death. That I would choose to inhumanity and exist thereon to serve _you_.”

“I suppose I was wrong?” Jonah sneers.

“You underestimated me,” Jon replies, “But worst of all, your underestimated my friends.”

“Ah.” Jonah barks a humourless laugh. “You were saved by the power of love, then?”

“Not quite. More by the power of loyalty. You see, the End cares for its own.”

“Don’t think I never _cared_ —”

“You didn’t. Not _once_. You tortured _all_ of us. You let Sasha _die_ , you pushed Tim to a despair that nearly _consumed_ him, you tried to _destroy_ Martin. Do you think I could ever overlook that?”

“Jon.”

“I chose the End,” Jon says, “Because I would rather spend a limited lifetime with the people I love than risk an infinity with the Eye. With _you_.”

“I can offer you more than the End.”

“You still haven’t learnt your lesson, have you, Jonah?”

“What—?”

“Death can be a mercy,” Jon murmurs, “If you look at it the right way.”

“Jon, are you really in the position to refuse _me_?” Jonah snaps.

Jon takes a final step closer. “I think, for the first time, I am.”

In his mind, he holds the image of the two doors.

“Mr. Spider still wants more,” Jon says, tipping his head back and projecting his voice. The web around him begins to thrum, as if carrying and absorbing the sound of his shouts. “I left you waiting for a long time.”

The web shakes, as if in assent.

“Jon,” Jonah warns.

“Take this offering, this wretched man who claims to see all but understands _nothing_ ,” Jon continues, feeling his voice grow. A sense of power bubbles within him, but it doesn’t belong to the Eye. It has the heavy, warm, dark weight of the End. “This man who has ignored and cut and burned every web you extended his way. The man who stood on your threshold, but was never polite enough to knock.”

“ _Jon_.”

“He has cheated death. And he has cheated _you_. He thinks his manipulations superior, but still he was caught by your web. He thinks his power infinite, but here he is, at your mercy.”

“Stop this, Jon.”

“You can’t have me. I escaped your web once and I will not fall into your trap again.” Jon meets Jonah’s eyes. “But this man is yours. Take him. Strip him of his power, his lies, his life.”

The web around Jonah is tightening. Threads grow and spike from all around him, digging into his skin like hooks. Jonah’s eyes, wide and afraid, meet Jon’s.

“You don’t want this, Jon,” Jonah says frantically, “Not really.”

Jon feels the power of his new patron. In the place where his fear should be, it grows and gathers and gains potency. It is a calm feeling, like floating on water. Like dreaming. “From the End to the Spider, he is yours.”

“ _Jon_!” Jonah screams. His whole body caught in the web, shattered, surrounded, as it tightens further.

“Leave his eyes.”

* * *

The web around Jon’s wrist leads him out.

When Jon opens his eyes, he finds himself trying to remember whether his grandmother ever held his hand, at least for the purpose of help, of comfort, of love. He can’t remember a time. He just remembers her hand, tight around his wrist like a scar grown hard and tight with age, dragging him home.

He cannot decide whether the Web feels like an echo of a memory he does not have or like the pain of a hand that does not love him, holding too tight.

But when he opens his eyes, he is back in the room at Hill Top Road. He turns, and to his left, instead of the Leitner, are a pair of familiar eyes. Piercing, sharp, and drenched in the same vivid red as the door in _A Guest For Mr. Spider_.

Jon looks at the length of web, fading from his wrist like a breath on a cold day. Before the web vanishes, he says: “So we’re even?”

The web squeezes once, as if to say: _yes_. And another tightening, as if to say: _for now_. And then it disappears.

Jon looks at the eyes again. Taking a shuddering breath, he steels himself for what comes next. Martin needs him. He knows what he has to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **non-canonical character death is Elias/Jonah
> 
> hi everyone!!!! i am so, so, so sorry for how late this chapter is. it's been a tough few months and i've been really struggling with motivation for this story, but this week's tma episode inspired me to finally polish up this chapter and get it posted. i'm a little rusty but i hope it was worth the wait :')
> 
> thank you so much to everyone who has commented and left kudos on this fic even while it's not been updated, it really means a lot to me and it kept me coming back to this fic in my mind even when i couldn't write. i want to reply to you all individually soon, but for now please know it means a lot and i'm really grateful <3


	27. a genius of love and loneliness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin considers his seat at the table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER-SPECIFIC CONTENT WARNINGS: spiders*, arachnophobia, the Web (Entity), manipulation, suicidal ideation, canonical character death, implied/referenced child abuse, nausea, allusions to vomiting, the Lonely (Entity), memory loss, disassociation, depersonalisation, disassociation, smoking/cigarettes (mentioned), compulsion, blood.
> 
> *the same warning about there being a lot of spiders from the last chapter applies here! Please take care!
> 
> Chapter title from "Agnes" by Glass Animals.

“Martin,” Annabelle says again, “Take a seat.”

The table stretches in front of him, singing oddly—like thousands upon thousands of voices curling and looping atop one another in a hypnotic mirror to the carvings on the surface of the table. Martin cannot stop listening. He takes a step closer, within touching distance of the chair Annabelle has gestured him towards, and the sound swells until he can make out specific voices, words, _statements._

_Still, glibness aside, the history of 105 Hill Top Road does bear investigation. And while I trust Mr. Lensik’s testimony of his own experiences as far as I can throw a bleeding tree_ —

_And then I remembered that I’d seen quite a lot of spider webs in the brief time I was down there, and maybe I should check it out again. I mean, like I said, I’m not really afraid of spiders, so_ —

_To be honest, I was surprised how quickly I accepted that. I’ve always considered myself a bit of a sceptic, and until recently I’d have said working at the Institute only made me more_ —

_I froze. I didn’t know what to do. Part of me wanted to run over and see if she was alright, but I just couldn’t bring myself to move. After a second or two_ —

_I don’t want to become a mystery. I refuse to become another goddamn_ —

_The book itself starts with a blank room in a simple house, almost entirely bare save for a small table with a pot of flowers_ —

_In desperation, I slammed my hands over my ears and shut my eyes, willing myself not to hear, not to understand. As far as defences go, it was basically nothing, but I still think it saved me, at least a bit. I still hear the words_ —

_He didn’t beg for his life_. _He didn’t say a word. I don’t think he even recognised me. He was harder to get rid of than_ —

_We didn’t really talk much, me and Danny. We were still pretty close, and he’d usually keep me updated on whatever his latest obsession was. He tended to throw himself into a thing completely for about_ —

_That was two weeks ago. I’ve tried to talk to my friends about it. Those of my friends I can find, but they seem distant, like they don’t really know me. Everything is just_ —

_I don’t know if you can hear me, but if you can… then I don’t forgive you. But thank you for this._

Statements, layered atop each other, voices he recognises and loves and doesn’t remember, Jon and Sasha and Tim and Melanie and Georgie and Elias and Anya, among so many other stories. All rising from the table like distant music from a record player. The statements seem to have been absorbed by the table—too many to count, just as there are so many twists and turns in the pattern that Martin struggles to make out any of them individually. 

And yet, in the part of him so consumed by the Institute—his mind’s Eye, he thinks bitterly—a pattern begins to emerge. The loops seem less random, more intentional. The turns less sharp, the music of the statements less discordant. He feels as if there is a string inside of him, too, and that if he plucked it, the echo would create order.

For the first time, he thinks he understands.

“The table,” Martin murmurs, transfixed, “It—it _absorbed_ the statements somehow.”

Annabelle smiles, a flash of fangs. “In a way, yes. Each statement left its impression, thanks to Adelard Dekker’s ritual—the table seeks out and traps any hint of power, even the weaker kind you find within statements. But the Mother’s loom wove them all together. The Eye supplied the thread, so to speak, and the Mother set to work connecting them. _Binding_ them.”

“That’s why you had it delivered to the Institute.”

“And reclaimed when it had served its purpose.”

“When it had a statement from every fear,” Martin finishes, “Even the Extinction.”

“Well _done_ , Martin,” Annabelle preens.

“But it—my statement, about Prentiss, it wasn’t—”

“The delivery was _slightly_ delayed while the Mother solidified her understanding of Jonah Magnus’s plans,” Annabelle explains, “Conveniently, when Sasha James was taken in such close proximity to the table, it absorbed—as you say—the statements she had listened to, which were plenty.”

The part of Martin’s mind that is his, only his, not seduced by the table and not immune to Annabelle’s manipulations, screams. Sasha’s death wasn’t a convenience, another play in a grand game she exited too early to understand. She mattered. She was his _friend_.

The Eye pulls him towards the table. But Martin’s heart burns indignant.

“Bring her back,” Martin snarls.

“Impossible, as far as I know,” Annabelle replies casually.

Just as quickly as Martin’s fury flashes up and out of his mouth, it retreats, replaced by the forward motion of the Eye grasping desperately for the table. It’s a puzzle to be solved. The most enticing puzzle of all. And Martin knows he cannot resist it.

“Are you ready to begin?” Annabelle asks. “Or do you have more questions?”

Martin grits his teeth, pressing down the Eye’s hunger. “What happens to us, then? When I sit down, and your _grand ritual_ begins?”

“Being at the centre of the tear in time and space might kill us.” Annabelle is still unbearably casually, but there’s a slightly edge to it. Martin gets the sense that some of her many eyes are adverted. “If we’re lucky.”

“And if we’re _un_ lucky?” Martin snaps.

“We will… become.”

“Yes, but become _what_?”

“A pupil of the Eye. The centre of the Web. I don’t know what it means to have every strand of existence threaded through oneself, to be the conduit of so much power, but I imagine it might be…” Annabelle seems to search for the right words. “Immensely and eternally painful.”

The table sings. And while Martin tries to hold Annabelle’s words in his mind as a warning, he feels himself beginning to surrender. The Eye has to solve the puzzle, untangle every thread until they can be seen. Immense and eternal.

“Why don’t you take a seat, Martin?” Annabelle sing-songs. “We have a purpose. How many people can say that? The consequences do not matter.”

“Consequences,” Martin echoes, his voice his own for a moment. It feels significant, that Annabelle would call them _consequences_. Even in her dedication to the Web, suffering in its name is something she considers a cost, a failing, a loss.

“Sit down,” Annabelle says again, her voice sharper this time.

_Consequences_. Martin holds on to that word, even as his mind’s Eye takes over. He feels his hand wrap around the chair in front of him and pull it away from the table. He feels his legs move, until he is sitting in his chair.

His throne.

The impact is immediate. It’s almost like Annabelle’s trick in the safehouse, with the bite and the strings, but the pain and pleasure mingle in the most overwhelming of ways until there’s a sense of something _buzzing_ beneath his skin. Like a thousand tiny pinpricks, raising goosebumps in their wake, and pulling so that he is more than himself—a thousand versions of Martin Blackwood. If he could see his shadow, he is sure that it would be layered, like a mirror reflected within another mirror. Endless. Infinite. He can feel his place among the fabric of time and space, and it feels _right_.

_Consequences_ , he thinks. Already, the power feels too big for his body. It feels unstable, explosive. Like it could tear him apart with the slightest provocation. He thinks of the way some things become more precious under pressure. He thinks of how some things shatter.

“So nice of you to join me,” Annabelle says, grinning, “At last.”

“What now?” Martin asks. A thousand versions of his own voice spill out of his mouth, thickening the sound until it booms against the solid walls of the room. He is himself. And he is a thousand versions of himself, too. And he is going to bring them all together.

He is going to make the world Bound and Known.

Annabelle’s smile sharpens. “Look up.”

From the table, Jon’s statement speaks to him: _I do know that the Eye_ — _Beholding_ — _was not the first that I encountered in my life. The first was the Spider. The Web. And I have no idea what that might mean._

Martin looks up.

His first and immediate instinct is to shut his eyes. He’s never been scared of spiders, not even as a child, not even when his mother would tell him it was unnatural not to fear their creeping, watching, lurking presence. But this is so much _more_ than a spider. The thing sitting on the ceiling above the table is the Mother of Puppets.

The great, bulbous body is arranged in an almost octagonal formation, so many _millions_ of spiders compressed together to form one scuttling being. Martin thinks of his childhood again, this time of holding fresh blackberries in his hands and _crushing_ them in anger while his parents walked ahead, shouting at one another over the sound of the wind. There are eyes _everywhere_. He did not what it was to be watched until now. It has only eight legs, but they too are made up of spider upon spider, stacked and squashed to form twitching limbs. All of it held together by that sparkling grey webbing, almost as if it is caught in a net—but caught is the wrong word. Caught implies a trap, an unwillingness. The Mother looks entirely in control. The webs are a part of its being, extending outwards from its bulging body to form the multiple threads that stretch out into the depths of Hilltop Road’s basement. Perhaps even further.

He’s never been afraid of spiders. Until now.

“Oh, _god_ ,” Martin gags. His skin is crawling, alight in a new way.

“Almost,” Annabelle whispers.

Martin thinks of Jon, aged eight, and wants to weep.

_Consequences._

He thinks of Carlos Vittery, the unfairness of his death and dismissal.

_Consequences._

He thinks of Sasha, stolen by the thing that had lurked inside the table, an accidental pawn.

_Consequences._

He has to remember the _consequences_. The people he loves. The love he holds even for strangers, because if not, what would keep him going? What would be the _point_? In so many ways, he has loved everyone and no one. He has loved the concept of love. Because its existence makes existing bearable.

The table doesn’t fall quiet, not quite, but Martin can hear the rush of the sea in his ears as if he has held a shell up to them. Beneath the sound, his own voice rises, distant and monotone and empty, reciting the story of a cold, lonely cul-de-sac.

_And that was when I heard it. It was quiet. My mind took a few moments to accept it could be real, but sure enough, there it was: the sound of my phone’s ringtone._

Not all paths are set in stone.

“Martin,” Annabelle says, a warning lilt to her voice.

_I looked up, and not three doors down was my car, the door still open where I had left it. I stumbled over my legs, still weak, and grabbed the headset which should have been long out of battery, and I stared at the glowing screen._

The Eye wants it all. But Martin, only Martin, reaches for this thread. He extends his hand towards the table.

_I don’t know how, but the tears came even faster now as I answered, sobbing with relief to hear him_ —

Martin presses his finger against one of the indents in the table. He feels an intense, biting cold ripple through him. It joins something already inside of him, an old, compacted shard of ice that has often caused him pain. Now, it brings something close to relief.

“Martin!”

Martin begins to trace the thread.

_Had I forgotten? Was I even planning to bother? I tried to reply, to explain, but all I could manage to say to get through the shaking sobs was, “I love you.”_

On this one cold, single, lonely thread, Martin pulls.

A familiar squeal of static swallows him whole before he can even register Annabelle’s shout.

* * *

There is a beach. Stones crunch beneath his feet as he walks, so loud he cannot hear anything but their clattering song and the gentle murmur of the tide. There is no one else to listen for. No one else to hear him as he walks across this endless stretch of beach.

It’s peaceful. The sounds come together in a gentle melody, until they hardly bother him at all, peripheral and unimportant. He has nowhere to be. He’s in no rush. And so he walks slowly, letting his feet sink deeper and deeper into the stony beach with each step. He feels himself being weighed down by it. He feels it becoming harder to lift his legs each time.

He doesn’t care.

He will walk until he can’t. He doesn’t know what will happen when he can’t, but the not knowing doesn’t bother him. There is a cavern inside of him where he thinks the care might once have lived. Now, it is empty, filled with a thin, intangible fog that disappears when looked at too closely. He cannot truly see inside of him.

It’s beautiful. Or at least, he thinks it would be beautiful, but beauty is something that doesn’t matter to him anymore. He knows vaguely that it is the sort of landscape that might be captured in a painting and displayed to many. A window into some emotion or other. A glimpse at isolation, which could never compare to the real thing. But his surroundings don’t really matter, might not even be real. The only thing that matters is moving forward.

It’s not that he is walking towards anything. It’s not that he even _wants_ anything. But he keeps going. There is nothing else to do except keep going. One foot in front of the other, no matter the way the beach seems to be closing around him, pulling him down. He feels heavy. He feels tired. But he cannot stop.

Very slowly, he becomes aware of someone walking beside him.

“You might have been marked first by the End,” says the voice with a cold, crackling lilt. Familiar, but the memory of where from is too far away for him to place. “But you have only ever really taken to the Lonely. This is where you belong.”

_Yes_ , he thinks, _this is where I belong._

The figure next to him feels immaterial, like cigarette smoke fading into the night and leaving only the slightest hint of tobacco behind. He thinks it should be familiar, the smell of cigarette smoke, that there should be a memory to go with it. But the figure does not smell of cigarettes. They smell of nothingness. Like cold air with the slightest hint of salt from a faraway sea.

They walk. Not together, but side-by-side. Two lonely figures on an otherwise empty beach.

Perhaps he should ask where they are going. But it doesn’t seem to matter. He has no where he needs to be. No one who’s expecting him.

“That’s not quite true,” says the figure next to him. The voice takes greater shape now—somehow both harsh and sharp, with a gentle crack when it meets certain words.

He doesn’t care for the voice. He prefers the semi-silence of the beach, the lullaby of the stones and the sea, loud but not overwhelming, cushioning him within the emptiness. This feels like an intrusion.

“Oh, it most certainly is,” the voice tells him.

He doesn’t want to stop. But his legs are getting heavier and heavier. Still, he pushes on.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” the voice demands. “Not all of us have the luxury of forgetting.”

He presses on, but the voice follows: “My name is Peter Lukas.”

He knows that name, doesn’t he? He knows that name like a haunting, like a line of a poem so self-hating he could never bring himself to write it down.

“You _banished_ me here,” Peter snarls, “You twisted the place where I thought I belonged, and now I exist like this—too angry to be truly lonely.”

He knows anger, like an old friend whose face he cannot quite remember. It used to follow him, much like this figure, this Peter. But here, it is dull and distant. He doesn’t even have anyone to be angry at. Anger is directional, he thinks, and he is without a compass on this long, stretching beach.

“I can’t help you,” he murmurs. His voice is very faint. He can hardly hear himself.

“Perhaps not.” Peter’s voice is a bitter, biting thing. “But at least I’m here to witness this. You might have an affinity with the Lonely, but you never wanted _this_ , not like I did.”

“Of course I want this,” he says.

He keeps walking, because he has to. He wants this. He wants this, doesn’t he? He has to want this. There’s no alternative.

Something catches in his mind. A tripped switch. He knows that he _should_ want this. He doesn’t know that he _does_ want it. They are two very different things, he muses—thinking and knowing.

They continue along the beach, stones shifting beneath their shoes. There is wind, carrying the sound of the sea and the crunch of the shore, but it doesn’t hurt in the way Martin thinks— _knows_ —it should. It is not cold.

“Are you really lonely if you don’t know what you’ve left behind?” Peter says after a while, his voice thoughtful but still with that undercurrent of cruelty.

“I haven’t left anything behind,” he says.

“That’s not quite true, though, is it?”

“Of course it’s true.”

But is it? He’s not so sure. He presses against the part of his mind that wants to remember, trying to smother its insistence, but he’s always been curious. Or stubborn. Perhaps stubborn is a better word. He knows this about himself. Before, he had been a blank canvas. Now, he is _something_. He is more than a ghost.

He thinks he might be starting to feel the cold.

“Don’t you want to know _why_ you are lonely?”

“Does it matter?”

“It might not have mattered to me once,” Peter admits bitterly, “But it’s important now.”

“Why?”

“You are here on purpose. I am not. That changes things.”

He thinks he understands. But to understand change, doesn’t one have to understand what came before? There is a memory, very distant, of something like warmth. Or at least resistance, a sense that he didn’t want to be cold. Like remembering to take a coat or carry an umbrella. It’s so very different to what he feels now that it almost burns.

They continue for some time in silence.

“Don’t we all leave things behind?” he asks, unable to stop the words. He surprises himself by saying them.

“Some of us more than others,” Peter replies pointedly.

He doesn’t rise to the challenge. It feels like the sort of challenge he should ignore until it fades away. But that distant, burning part of his mind reaches for it. It wants answers. It needs to know.

He keeps walking.

“What would it really change, if you knew?” Peter asks, the question almost gentle. “You are, after all, so certain you belong here.”

“I do.”

“Then what’s the harm?”

He is shivering now, a small but noticeable tremble in his body. He doesn’t want to know. He desperately wants to know. At the threshold of these warring desires, he feels the first stirrings of unease. Of being trapped.

“How do you know who I am?” he says, almost hoping Peter doesn’t answer.

“We’re old acquaintances,” Peter tells him.

“I think I—I recognise you.” The cold is getting worse, he thinks. His skin twists and tightens with it.

“Wouldn’t you like to know where from?”

“I—I don’t—I don’t know,” he says, his lips trembling with a particularly violent shudder.

“Think on it, then. We have all the time in the world.”

They walk. There is no sun, just an overcast sky. It sits heavy, clouds mingling with mist, so that there is grey above and below and all around them. It’s monotonous. The scene doesn’t change no matter how far they seem to walk. He is sure the stones must have filled his shoes for how heavy his legs feel, how difficult it is to keep moving forward.

He wonders if he’s been here before. He thought before that he had always been here, but now it feels… new. It feels just left of unfamiliar. He’s been to a beach before, of course, but this beach feels different.

There’s a far-away memory. A conversation. He hears it as if someone is shouting from a ship very far out to sea—some part of him knows it was loud once before it travelled to meet him, but he can’t make himself imagine its full glory. Just a distant echo.

Still, the distant echo gives him a name. “Is this Bournemouth?”

Peter almost laughs. “No. Interesting that you should say that, though.”

“Why is it interesting?”

“Tell me,” Peter says, “Where did you get that name from?”

Now that he thinks about it, he can only hear this name said in a particular voice. It’s not his voice. There is something deeper and haughtier about this other voice.

_I wouldn’t be caught dead in Bournemouth_ , says the other voice.

_But you’re_ from _Bournemouth_. He thinks he might have said this once, an amused, high-pitched protestation. It doesn’t sound like him, but somehow, it is.

_Yes, and I am never going back._

He thinks he might have laughed. It surprises him, this realisation. He isn’t sure he knows how to laugh. The sound is rusty when it reaches him. Perhaps his past self didn’t quite know how to laugh either.

“I don’t know,” he says. It’s a lie. What purpose does he have for lying? He thinks he must want something, if he is lying.

“Don’t you want to know?” Peter presses.

“I think I—” he stops. “No. No, I don’t want to know.”

They walk.

And as they walk, he hears more of this other voice:

_Are you cold?_

_I think I wanted… I wanted you to be there._

_How’s the poetry?_

_You’re safe now._

_I care about you far too much to let you complete the ritual._

_Do you want a cup of tea?_

_Looking after you is a privilege._

_Perhaps I just like saying your name._

He has a name. He must have a name. But he can’t remember it.

He wants to remember it.

“Peter,” he says, almost involuntarily.

Peter stops walking. He stops walking, too.

“Tell me,” he demands.

Slowly, a smile curls across Peter’s face. “No.”

A flash of something hot rushes through him. It takes him a moment to recognise it as anger. “You said—”

“I lied.”

“Why?”

“Because I wanted to make you feel how I have felt,” Peter hisses, “Trapped here and _furious_.”

He feels it now. He is furious. It’s overwhelming, warring with the cold that’s sinking deeper and deeper beneath his skin, so that he is alight with contradictions. He needs to _know_.

He curls his fists. “Tell. Me.”

“No.”

“ _Tell me_.”

Peter’s smile is horrible. “ _No_.”

The sound of static fizzles over the gentle sway of the sea. It’s a different sort of sound, cutting at his eardrums even while it fills him with a sense of rightness. Of power. He’s in control here. And with that control, he will _make_ Peter talk.

“I can _make_ you tell me,” he warns Peter.

Peter looks less real, more translucent. As if he is fading. As if he intends to be elsewhere. “I’d like to see you—”

“ _Stop_ ,” he snaps.

Peter’s eyes widen. He freezes, pinned in place, and his image flickers once before materialising fully again. “Let me go.”

“No,” he says, “Not until you _tell me_.”

“I won’t.”

“I think you will.”

“ _No_.”

He takes a step towards Peter. He can tell from the way Peter recoils that he wants to move away, but he is still fixed in place.

“ _Tell me_ ,” he says. His voice is so much stronger than it was before, infused with static. It vibrates with something otherworldly, a deep compulsion.

“No.”

He puts all of his power into his words: “ _Tell me_.”

Peter meets his eyes. They are flat and grey, but his defiance burns, too wild to control.

The static grows in pitch. He feels it inside of him now, building to a crescendo. The next words don’t feel like his own. It’s as if they belong to a power far beyond him: “ _Tell me now_.”

Peter shakes his head, just once.

The power rushes up and through him with the violent force of a surging wave. The static covers his vision, sparks crawling across his view of the beach and the sea and the fog and Peter, and then _pours_ out of his mouth. He isn’t sure he forms the words again, but the intent behind them stays. Lingers. He’s hungry for Peter’s answer. Desperate for it. He pulls with all of his might and—

A hissing, squealing sound roars around them as his vision clears of static. Peter’s expression is caught between defiance and shock, a silent scream holding his mouth open as the static surrounds him. It wraps around his body, filling his eyes, his ears, his scream-stretched mouth. And then in a burst of sound and light, Peter _shatters_. It is as if the static tears him apart in one motion, scattering his essence into millions of shards of nothingness. A colourless glass that lands nowhere, touches nothing. Forgotten. Faded.

The beach is empty now. He falls to his knees. The stones dig into his skin. The iciness of the wind snaps at his cheeks. He’s never been so cold.

He’s never been so alone.

“I have a name,” he pants as he falls forward onto his hands, half-collapsed on all fours. Whatever power he used to destroy Peter has faded, replaced with a deep-rooted weariness. He feels as if he has dragged something heavy into this realm, a weapon that was not fitted for him, and his body aches with the borrowed energy it took to wield it.

“I have a name,” he says softly, as he lowers his forehead to the stones. They are sharp. But they don’t draw blood, because blood would bring warmth. It feels as if hard, icy fingers are pressing into his skin, his eyes. A desperate sob surprises him. He is even more surprised to discover it’s his.

_Perhaps I just like saying your name._

“Jon,” he sobs.

But that’s not _his_ name. That is someone he’s left behind. It isn’t his name.

“My name—my name is—” he feels as if he’s choking on the emptiness in his throat. But it’s there. It’s _right there._

He lifts his head. The leaden sky lurks above. A grey nothingness stretches all around him.

In that moment, his remembers his name.

“Martin,” he whispers, “My name is Martin. Martin Blackwood.”

And Martin is alone. Martin is lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've wanted to include some reference to MAG159 in this fic from the very beginning and i think finally working out how has been very helpful for getting back into the writing of this!!! but also... i'm sorry for putting Martin through even more stuff :( 
> 
> thank you for reading!!! stay safe, have a lovely day <3

**Author's Note:**

> aaaand welcome to my first tma fanfic!!! decided to publish this now i'm getting towards the end of writing it (halfway through putting actual words to word document, planned to the end and know how it finishes), especially since the liveshow audio released by rusty quill this week confirms that Elias was the one to assign Martin to the Archives. much to think about with this particular AU... ;))))
> 
> please leave kudos and comments if you want - it makes my day!! aiming to update every three days during the series 5 hiatus :)


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